THEY see amiss who picture Time as old,
A stooping baldpate with his wrinkled hand
Clutched on a scythe. Not so I understand
My comrade of a lifetime, who has told
This listening heart from childhood manifold
Strange stories of the past as through the land
We ran together, while the glad winds fanned
Back from his forehead locks of youthful gold.
But these my mortal limbs may not much longer
Maintain the ardor of his quickening pace;
I find him ever younger, swifter, stronger,
Singing no more of strifes anti splendors gone,
But panting for the goal of his great race,
As the importunate vision sweeps him on.