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 | Poems by Frances Sargent Osgood |  |
LXIV. I MOURNED THAT TIME TOO SWIFTLY SPED.
I mourn'd that Time too swiftly sped,
I wept that Youth was flying;
“I'll put your life-clock back,” he said,
“So hush your sad heart's sighing!”
I wept that Youth was flying;
“I'll put your life-clock back,” he said,
“So hush your sad heart's sighing!”
He brought me flowers, to soothe my gloom,
And stay Time's tell-tale finger;
For, tangled in their wreathing bloom,
The life-clock's hand may linger.
And stay Time's tell-tale finger;
For, tangled in their wreathing bloom,
The life-clock's hand may linger.
418
And while I turn the treasures o'er,
And breathe the balm they give me,
I dream I am a child once more,
With naught to harm or grieve me.
And breathe the balm they give me,
I dream I am a child once more,
With naught to harm or grieve me.
And answering flowers within my soul,
The fresh, wild flowers of feeling,
Wind with them round my life-clock's hand,
And stay its onward stealing.
The fresh, wild flowers of feeling,
Wind with them round my life-clock's hand,
And stay its onward stealing.
Then, if they fade—(ah! will they fade?)
Their fragrance still may linger,
And hallowing Time's sad evening shade
Embalm his tell-tale finger!
Their fragrance still may linger,
And hallowing Time's sad evening shade
Embalm his tell-tale finger!
| Poems by Frances Sargent Osgood | |