THE HOURS

The hours are weary of being hours.

        Oh, to be aught else! they say.

Their task's to age children, hopes and flowers,

        Paint lips cold and hairs gray.

They sicken and sadden and deaden beauty.

        When they pass and look behind,

Lining the path of their ended duty

        They only weeping fmd.

So, Oh, to be something else! they say,

        For they think they know

That the things and thoughts they take away

        Really fade and go.

But they do not know, blind misers screening

        A robber‑changed false pelf,

That everything has Another Meaning -

        Ay, even God Himself