  O Time, you are an idiot’s fluid curse. O Time, you are an uninspired hearse. O Time, you kill beneath your robe of nurse. O Time, your eyes are cherubs drowned in pools, O Time, your wisdom scorns the aid of stools, O Time, your kindness blinds the life of fools. O Time, you blur pretentious intellect. O Time, you break the thrones that thoughts erect. O Time, your hands indifferently correct The incoherent sorceries of men Who dance before a monstrous Axe and Pen, Waving the fetiches of words, and then Censure the dance with pedestals of gauze Cleverly imitating rock, and laws Whose opaque sureness broods above their cause. When irony will cease to be obscure To men whose eyes resent the cloudy lure That ends their tiny clarities, with pure And forming mists of words, then men will climb With restless regularity, like Time, Who merely seeks a changing pantomime. O Time, you are too pure and swiftly wide For men who try to check your colored stride With opaque temples and a sleeping bride. |
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