Time

O, fearsome cherub,
your whirling wheels
fly forward, crawling,
with eyes forever looking back!
Every great work
is petition to thee
for immortality,
but the undulation of your wings
laid low in streaming desert
Ozymandias’ pride;
’twas but a trifle.
And even should a
Homer, Virgil, or Grecian Urn
canvas all you’ve seen
of life,
death,
and that which lies between,
still would you decree,
“All is vanity.”
So wisdom bids one pause
to smell the roses
while they may.

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