Stones from The Quarry | ||
DEATH AND TIME.
On, on he strides, his scythe right sharp and strong;Heavy each swathe that falls, and wide each sweep.
He tireth not, but aye at work doth keep;
Stays not for heat o' day, nor evensong,
Matins or midnight, ne reckoneth he wrong.
A mighty mower truly! He doth reap
Where others sow, and wake when others sleep;
His barns, I wot, are full, and will be long!
He moweth in the blade and in the ear,
Ripe and unripe, the tares and eke the wheat:
Clean work he makes, and they who in his rear
Would glean, must be right quick of sight and feet.
I'd back him 'gainst all odds, save his compeer
And fellow-worker, Time, the World to beat!
Stones from The Quarry | ||