Autumn and Winter,
Summer and Spring--
Hath Time no other song to sing?
Weary we grow of the changeless tune--
June--December,
December--June!
Time, like a bird, hath but one song,
One way to build, like a bird hath he;
Thus hath he built so long, so long,
Thus hath he sung--Ah me!
Time, like a spider, knows, be sure,
One only wile, though he seems so wise:
Death is his web, and Love his lure,
And you and I his flies.
'Love!' he sings
In the morning clear,
'Love! Love! Love!'
And you never hear
How, under his breath,
He whispers, 'Death!
Death! Death!'
Yet Time--'tis the strangest thing of all--
Knoweth not the sense of the words he saith;
Eternity taught him his parrot-call
Of 'Love and Death.'
Year after year doth the old man climb
The mountainous knees of Eternity,
But Eternity telleth nothing to Time--
It may not be.