And pluck till time and times are done the silver apples of the moon the golden apples of the sun.
The innocent and the beautiful have no enemy but time.
An aged man is but a paltry thing, a tattered coat upon a stick
And God stands winding His lonely horn, And time and the world are ever in flight.
And God, the herdsman, goads them on behind.
But O, sick children of the world, Of all the many changing things In dreary dancing past us whirled, To the cracked tune that Chronos sings, Words alone are certain good.
What can be shown? What true love be? All could be known or shown If Time were but gone.
My chair was nearest to the fire In every company That talked of love or politics, Ere Time transfigured me.
The years like great black oxen tread the world, and God, the herdsman goads them on behind, and I am broken by their passing feet.
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