Poems (Sharpless)/To Time—1858

by Frances M. Sharpless

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 start
Of terror at the fleeting years,
 I feel thy touch is on my heart.

The impulses of youth are flown;—
 With graver aspect I behold
Fancy'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 leaves
The 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.