Love from Time's wings hath stoľ'n the feathers, sureHe has, and put them to his own;For hours of late as long as days endure,And very minutes hours are grown.
The various motions of the turning yearBelong not now at all to me:Each summer's night does Lucy's now appear,Each winter's day St. Barnaby.
How long a space since first I lov'd it is!To look into a glass I fear;And am surpris'd with wonder when I missGrey-hairs and wrinkles there.
Th' old Patriarchs' age, and not their happiness too,Why does hard Fate to us restore?Why does Love's fire thus to mankind renewWhat the Flood wash'd away before?
Sure those are happy people that complainO' th' shortness of the days of man:Contract mine, Heaven! and bring them back againTo th' ordinary span.
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Love from Time's wings has stol’n the feathers sure
He has, and put them to his own.
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