Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/The March of Time

The March of Time.

In the palace, in the cottage, By the river, by the rill,Time is ever marching onward, Ever onward—onward still.

Never tiring, never resting, Neither bending to our will;Hastening on with even footstep, Ever onward—onward still,

Secrets lost in dark oblivion, Human tongue shall never tell;Time, their keeper, little heeding, Marches onward—onward still.

Dreams and echoes of the past, Waken in us memory's thrill;Showing, by their silent teaching, Time is marching onward still.