  I LAY my finger on time’s wrist to score The forward-surging moments as they roll; Each pulse seems quicker than the one before; And lo! my days pile up against my soul As clouds pile up against the golden sun. Alas! what have I done? What have I done? I never steep the rosy hours in sleep, Or hide my soul, as in a gloomy crypt; No idle hands into my bosom creep; And yet, as water-drops from house-eaves drip, So, viewless, melt my days, and from me run; Alas! what have I done? What have I done? I have not missed the fragrance of the flowers, Or scorned the music of the flowing rills, Whose numerous liquid tongues sing to the hours; Yet rise my days behind me, like the hills Unstayed by light of mighty triumphs won; Alas! what have I done? What have I done? Be still, my soul, restrain thy lips from woe! Cease thy lament! for life is but the flower, The fruit comes after death; how can’st thou know The roundness of its form, its depth of power? Death is life’s morning. When thy work’s begun, Then ask thyself—what yet is to be done? Lillian Blanche Fearing, In Home Mission Monthly. double line
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