The Hand of Time

She dreams beneath lamplight pale,
Like Beauty in the fairy-tale
Of Messrs. Grimm.
And as I gaze, behold, a Thing,
A shape, a face white, menacing,
Hangs o’er her ’mid a ghostly ring
Of figures dim.

Now o’er the figures dark I see
A hand which moves relentlessly,
Remorseless, black.
The hand of Time—and through me flit
The Solemn words by Omar writ,
“Not all your piety nor wit
Can lure it back.”

She sighs, she stirs, her lids unclose
Like petals of a pearly rose
After the rain.
And as she notes, with startled eye,
The Station Clock, I hear her cry,
“It’s twenty minutes past—oh, my!
I’ve missed my train.”