by Robert Laurence Binyon
Move onward, Time, and bring us sooner free
From this self--clouding turmoil where we ply
On others' errands driven continually:
O lead us to our own souls, ere we die!
We toil for that we love not; thou concealest
Our true loves from us; all we thirst to attain
Thou darkly holdest, and alone revealest
A mirror that our sighs for ever stain.
Art thou so jealous of our full delight?
Thou takest our strength, toil, fervour, and sweet youth;
And when thou hast taken these, thou givest sight
At last to see and to endure the truth.
Thou art too swift to our weak steps; but oh,
To our desire thou movest, Time, how slow!
Last updated January 14, 2019