How few alack,
There be along the track
Of life which hear not at their back
(Though small birds sing
And blessèd belfries ring)
The creaking of Time’s iron wing;
And, in mad flight
From an untempted might,
Trample the lovely fields of light,
Nor for a space
Pause in their fearful race
To look their tyrant in the face.—
In you alone,
Dear child, there ever shone
Divine deliberation.
And now in weed
And grass you bid Time speed
Away in dandelion seed,
Till your bright hair,
For the down mingled there,
His very greyness looks to wear.
Ah happy she
Whose gentle hours be
Told by such kind chronometry!
For now Time saith,
Who smiling listeneth,
“Lo, a child flouts me with a breath!”
And so, to assuage
Sweetly a feignèd rage,
He dims your hair with mimic age.