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To You Who Read
My Book
SOON every sprinter,
However fleet,
Comes to a winter
Of sure defeat:
Though he may race
Like the hunted doe,
Time has a pace
To lay him low.
However fleet,
Comes to a winter
Of sure defeat:
Though he may race
Like the hunted doe,
Time has a pace
To lay him low.
Soon we who sing,
However high,
Must face the Thing
We cannot fly.
Yea, though we fling
Our notes to the sun,
Time will outsing
Us every one.
However high,
Must face the Thing
We cannot fly.
Yea, though we fling
Our notes to the sun,
Time will outsing
Us every one.
All things must change
As the wind is blown;
Time will estrange
The flesh from the bone.
As the wind is blown;
Time will estrange
The flesh from the bone.
xiii
