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.