Poems (Sharpless)/To Time—1858
TO TIME . . . 1858
Time, the Iconoclast, thy hand Hath shivered many a joy of mine,And left my spirit sad and cowed, Weeping before the insulted shrine;—
And when my heart bowed low beneath The veiled image it had made,Thy hand hath torn the mask aside, And I have scorned where erst I prayed.
Thy hand is on my brow, thy mark On cheek and eye, yet, with a startOf terror at the fleeting years, I feel thy touch is on my heart.
The impulses of youth are flown;— With graver aspect I beholdFancy's gay follies, Joy's allures, And feel my pulses calm and cold.
Yet I can bless thee, Fearful One, That tarriest never for our cries,That urgeth us forever on, Thro' our God-cared-for destinies.
Thou, the Destroyer, art to me The Soother, Friend and Comforter;Thou bindest up the hearts that bleed In this world's rude and careless stir.
Thy veil is thrown o'er by-gone scenes, Extracting all the pain; it leavesThe tender beauty that earth wears On autumn's quiet misty eves—
Till we stand, counting pleasant paths, Forgetting we have been storm-driven,And, lingering in thy parting smile, Step from thy arms to God and Heaven.