Distant reverie, love it not!
Cold and soft, it eyes ye hot.
Bleak recalls on ye take hold
Whenever heart prefers time locked.
March away, may ye not?
Jeune youth lies, lies and rots.
Beware the hurry on craggy rocks:
What yer haste on taste now brought?
Young one lacks of sight and sense;
Aged looks back, enthralled by mind
In traps of sand of clocks which bend:
Aged won’t then but seek what fled.
Feel it moving, flying high;
Even now yer time’s been wound,
For, by dint of riming on this ground,
I took yer seconds till this verse.
