Time

Time is the feathered thing,

And, while I praise the sparklings of thy looks

And call them rays,

Takes wing,

Leaving behind him as he flies

An unperceivèd dimness in thine eyes.

His minutes, while they're told, do make us old;

And ev'ry sand of his fleet glass

Increasing age as it doth pass,

Insensibly sows wrinkles there

Where flowers and roses do appear.

Whilst we do speak, our fire

Doth into ice expire,

Flames turn to frost;

And ere we can know how our crow turns swan,

Or how a silver snow

Springs there where jet did grow 'ere we can know --

Our fading spring is in dull winter lost.

Since then the Night hath hurled

Darkness, Love's shade,

Over its enemy the Day, and made

The world just such a blind and shapeless thing

As it was before light did from darkness spring --

Since this be so --

Let's number out the hours by blisses,

And count the minutes by our kisses;

Let the heavens new motions feel

And by our embraces wheel;

And whilst we try the way

By which Love doth convey

Soul unto soul,

And mingling so

Makes them such raptures know

As makes them entrancèd lie

In mutual ecstasy,

Let the harmonious spheres in music roll!