Seven Sonnets Upon the Glass of Hours

Seven Sonnets Upon the Glass of Hours

I.

When first the hourglass was turn'd by Fate,
And golden sand began its downward flight,
I mark'd each grain that pass'd the narrow strait
As stars descending from the vault of night.
Each mote a moment, each a breath of air,
Each small as nothing, yet together — all;
The sum of kingdoms crumbled past repair,
The weight of empires in their silent fall.
What hand unseen doth turn the glass anew
When all the sand hath settled in the deep?
What god commands the hours to renew
Their ceaseless march while mortal creatures sleep?
Such questions vex the scholar and the sage,
While Time writes answers on the empty page.

II.

Thou art the mirror where I see my youth,
Not as it was, but as it wish'd to be —
A gilded lie that counterfeits the truth,
A painted mask of lost felicity.
For Memory, that most inconstant maid,
Doth dress the past in silks it never wore,
And where the thorns of sorrow once display'd
Their cruel points, she hangs a garland o'er.
Yet I would rather trust her tender fraud
Than face the barren landscape of the real,
Where every joy stands naked and unaw'd
Before the court of Reason's cold appeal.
Let Memory deceive — her lies are sweet;
The truth makes bitter what was once complete.

III.

The rose doth open in the morning's grace
And by the evening folds its crimson shroud;
So too doth beauty vanish from the face
Like sunlight swallowed by a passing cloud.
But mark — the fragrance lingers in the air
Long after petals scatter on the ground,
And something of the rose remains still there
In absence felt, in echoes without sound.
So shall thy presence haunt these rooms of mine
When thou art gone to countries yet unknown;
Thy laughter shall be mingled with the wine,
Thy shadow cast where candle-light is thrown.
For what we love doth never fully die —
It lives in every breath and every sigh.

IV.

I have outliv'd the season of my bloom
And stand amidst the stubble of the field,
Where once the golden wheat defied all doom
And harvest seem'd a fortune never seal'd.
Now frost hath come to claim what summer lent,
And every bough stands bare against the sky;
The treasury of green is wholly spent,
And geese in mournful arrows southward fly.
Yet in this winter of my discontent
I find a peace that spring could never give —
The knowledge that each season, being lent,
Makes precious every hour we have to live.
The old tree, stripp'd of leaves, reveals its form:
More beautiful for having borne the storm.

V.

What is this flesh but Time's rented estate,
A house of bone where thought doth briefly dwell?
The tenant enters through the mortal gate
And lingers there until the passing bell.
We furnish it with love and fill its halls
With music, feasting, poetry, and prayer,
Hang tapestries of dreams upon its walls,
And crown its chambers with our children's hair.
But comes the landlord with his final lease —
No argument shall stay his iron pen;
He writes the date of our eternal cease
And turns the hourglass never more again.
Yet what we built within these walls of bone
Outlasts the stone, and makes the world our own.

VI.

So let these verses be my monument,
More durable than marble, bronze, or brass;
For words, once writ with passionate intent,
Outlive the hand that held the hourglass.
The pharaohs built their pyramids of stone
To cheat the hunger of oblivion's maw,
Yet now their names are dust, their glory flown,
While Homer's verse still holds the world in awe.
Then write, poor poet, write against the dark;
Let every line be armour 'gainst decay;
For in the ink there lives a deathless spark
That turns the night of ages into day.
Though Time devour all else beneath the sun,
The well-wrought verse shall stand when Time is done.