Allay this, Time; at long last, grant rest here?
Thou keep’st a fair wager, well-played and won;
So, keep more fair in leaving each lost year,
By Thee, thus free from me; done, as is done.
Wretchèd I plea for my gamble and waste.
These are to Thee as pebbles for skipping;
Forever gone. To Thy sea—Pure, still chaste!
They are to me as precious pearls, weeping.
Alas, I see Time’s purpose: Retrospect.
Alack, for Youth and inexperience;
Assuage, ephemeral years, due respect;
Anoint, Thy pebbles here; mark, their conscience.
For Time doth win its years: harsh, just and fair;
Lest all years hence be lost to more despair.