It would seem that Time, without regard for thee

Hath galloped past with but a hand raised in farewell 

In the satchel He doth carry be thy running Sands 

No longer shall it be grasped what hath been lived 

Vainly thee should reach for that which cannot be reclaimed 

Thee might yowl as a babe would, to fall on empty ears 

Arms raised in pleaded cries that shall go unheeded 

Bargain with Him as thee will but receive nothing 

Rise to thy feet to follow He who holds thy Clock 

While He shall ride to and fro, distress ye not 

Thy Sands shall run e'er hastily, e'er steadily 

Look thee back in longing, aye, but a gander only 

Take heed of thy steps as Time hath warned thee then