ON THE SHORTNESS OF TIME

 

If I could live without the thought of Death,

Forgetful of Time's waste, the soul's decay,

I would not ask for other joy than breath

With light and sound of birds and the sun's ray.

I could sit on untroubled day by day

Watching the grass grow and the wild flowers range

From blue to yellow and from red to grey

In natural sequence as the seasons change.

I could afford to wait, but for the hurt

Of this dull tick of time which chides my ear.

But now I dare not sit with loins ungirt

And staff unlifted, for Death stands too near.

I must be up and doing-ay, each minute.

The grave gives time for rest when we are in it.

 

WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT