The Works of Abraham Cowley/Volume 2/The Long Life

by Abraham Cowley

THE LONG LIFE.

Love from Time's wings hath stoľ'n the feathers, sure
He 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 year
Belong 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 miss
Grey-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 renew
What the Flood wash'd away before?

Sure those are happy people that complain
O' th' shortness of the days of man:
Contract mine, Heaven! and bring them back again
To th' ordinary span.

Love from Time's wings has stol’n the feathers sure
He has, and put them to his own.