48 Time poems

Like as the waves make towards the pebbl'd shore, So do our minutes hasten to their end; Each changing place with that which goes before, In sequent toil all forwards do contend. Nativity, once in the main of light, Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crown'd, Crooked eclipses 'gainst his glory fight, And Time that gave doth now his gift confound. Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth And delves the parallels in beauty's brow, Feeds on the rarities of nature's truth, And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow: And yet to times in hope my verse shall stand, Praising thy worth, despite his cruel hand.

When I have seen by Time's fell hand defac'd The rich proud cost of outworn buried age; When sometime lofty towers I see down-ras'd And brass eternal slave to mortal rage; When I have seen the hungry ocean gain Advantage on the kingdom of the shore, And the firm soil win of the wat'ry main, Increasing store with loss and loss with store; When I have seen such interchange of state, Or state itself confounded to decay; Ruin hath taught me thus to ruminate, That Time will come and take my love away. This thought is as a death, which cannot choose But weep to have that which it fears to lose.

Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea But sad mortality o’er-sways their power, How with this rage shall beauty hold a plea, Whose action is no stronger than a flower? O, how shall summer’s honey breath hold out Against the wrackful siege of batt’ring days, When rocks impregnable are not so stout, Nor gates of steel so strong, but time decays? O fearful meditation! where, alack, Shall time’s best jewel from time’s chest lie hid? Or what strong hand can hold his swift foot back? Or who his spoil of beauty can forbid? O, none, unless this miracle have might, That in black ink my love may still shine bright.

When in the chronicle of wasted time I see descriptions of the fairest wights, And beauty making beautiful old rhyme In praise of ladies dead and lovely knights, Then, in the blazon of sweet beauty's best, Of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow, I see their antique pen would have express'd Even such a beauty as you master now. So all their praises are but prophecies Of this our time, all you prefiguring; And, for they look'd but with divining eyes, They had not skill enough your worth to sing: For we, which now behold these present days, Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise.

No, Time, thou shalt not boast that I do change: Thy pyramids built up with newer might To me are nothing novel, nothing strange; They are but dressings of a former sight. Our dates are brief, and therefore we admire What thou dost foist upon us that is old, And rather make them born to our desire Than think that we before have heard them told. Thy registers and thee I both defy, Not wondering at the present nor the past; For thy records and what we see doth lie, Made more or less by that continual haste. This I do vow, and this shall ever be: I will be true, despite thy scythe and thee.

How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth, Stol'n on his wing my three-and-twentieth year! My hasting days fly on with full career, But my late spring no bud or blossom shew'th. Perhaps my semblance might deceive the truth That I to manhood am arriv'd so near; And inward ripeness doth much less appear, That some more timely-happy spirits endu'th. Yet be it less or more, or soon or slow, It shall be still in strictest measure ev'n To that same lot, however mean or high, Toward which Time leads me, and the will of Heav'n: All is, if I have grace to use it so As ever in my great Task-Master's eye.

(from Troilus and Cressida , spoken by Ulysses) Time hath, my lord, a wallet at his back, Wherein he puts alms for oblivion, A great-sized monster of ingratitudes: Those scraps are good deeds past; which are devour'd As fast as they are made, forgot as soon As done: perseverance, dear my lord, Keeps honour bright: to have done is to hang Quite out of fashion, like a rusty mail In monumental mockery. Take the instant way; For honour travels in a strait so narrow, Where one but goes abreast: keep then the path; For emulation hath a thousand sons That one by one pursue: if you give way, Or hedge aside from the direct forthright, Like to an enter'd tide, they all rush by And leave you hindmost; Or like a gallant horse fall'n in first rank, Lie there for pavement to the abject rear, O'er-run and trampled on: then what they do in present, Though less than yours in past, must o'ertop yours; For time is like a fashionable host That slightly shakes his parting guest by the hand, And with his arms outstretch'd, as he would fly, Grasps in the comer: welcome ever smiles, And farewell goes out sighing. O, let not virtue seek Remuneration for the thing it was; For beauty, wit, High birth, vigour of bone, desert in service, Love, friendship, charity, are subjects all To envious and calumniating time. One touch of nature makes the whole world kin, That all with one consent praise new-born gawds, Though they are made and moulded of things past, And give to dust that is a little gilt More laud than gilt o'er-dusted. The present eye praises the present object. Then marvel not, thou great and complete man, That all the Greeks begin to worship Ajax; Since things in motion sooner catch the eye Than what not stirs. The cry went once on thee, And still it might, and yet it may again, If thou wouldst not entomb thyself alive And case thy reputation in thy tent; Whose glorious deeds, but in these fields of late, Made emulous missions 'mongst the gods themselves And drave great Mars to faction.

These years lift over coldly now: Aprils and Augusts are gifted to ice, or sprawl into mid-summers or year ends—pillars of lesser standing. Still come no replies to boyish queries, how the belly sleeper buoys, begins again, becomes poor soul or bull of appetite; why when the pearls drop, no spool dares connect the ripples.

Kant says time is neither event nor thing. Well, I think. That’s that. But then Teresa calls. She’s found my old letters. There are dead dogs in them, old boyfriends; the miscarriage is happening (has happened) and I have to catch a plane. The plane has      (not yet) taken off. Sundials, T squares, heartbeats, and the equinox. In places of worship, incense burns. All to mark no thing. Here, wind moves water in one direction, then another. Some mornings, nothing ripples, not leaves, not iridescence on birdwing, beetle back. Some mornings, both: stillness, unrest. Last season’s loon calls. And sometimes? I can’t remember the lake where I first heard that sound, though the vision of it rises through a paint-flecked pane. On my morning walk: a hawk perched on a telephone wire above what used to be a hayfield: rusted New Holland baler, bobolinks and meadowlarks saved from the mower. That was a generation ago, dead farmers, dead cows. Now is not the time, moles, voles, mice, to dart into the light. Nothing stops in stillness except solstice when the sun stands still in declination. I should tell someone this, that we are not propelled beyond a moment of observation, even loss, into something else: field edge, lakeside, motherhood. But that, instead, we are always on our way. On my return, the wire’s empty. The hawk has hunted or not, is sated or continues, hungry. Hunger, at least, returns. Once, in different water, my daughters waded naked after mussels. Appendages, these daughters were. I was accustomed to the creases behind their knees where I kept their pulse. Keep these, too: ships’ bells and steeple chimes, an hourglass, the pharaoh’s water clock. Now, on a floating dock, my daughters sun themselves, swing limbs above water that soon enough will be ice. These days, you can lift saliva off the back of a stamp, determine who licked it. And that woman? That sender? She will have stopped and she will not yet have stopped        and she will still be bleeding.

Enter JANUS JANUS Chronos, Chronos, mend thy pace, An hundred times the rolling sun Around the radiant belt has run In his revolving race. Behold, behold, the goal in sight, Spread thy fans, and wing thy flight. Enter CHRONOS,with a scythe in his hand, and a great globe on his back, which he sets down at his entrance CHRONOS Weary, weary of my weight, Let me, let me drop my freight, And leave the world behind. I could not bear Another year The load of human-kind. Enter MOMUS Laughing MOMUS Ha! ha! ha! Ha! ha! ha! well hast thou done, To lay down thy pack, And lighten thy back. The world was a fool, e'er since it begun, And since neither Janus, nor Chronos, nor I, Can hinder the crimes, Or mend the bad times, 'Tis better to laugh than to cry. CHORUS OF ALL THREE 'Tis better to laugh than to cry JANUS Since Momus comes to laugh below, Old Time begin the show, That he may see, in every scene, What changes in this age have been, CHRONOS Then Goddess of the silver bow begin. Horns, or hunting-music within DIANA With horns and with hounds I waken the day, And hie to my woodland walks away; I tuck up my robe, and am buskin'd soon, And tie to my forehead a waxing moon. I course the fleet stag, unkennel the fox, And chase the wild goats o'er summits of rocks, With shouting and hooting we pierce thro' the sky; And Echo turns hunter, and doubles the cry. CHORUS OF ALL With shouting and hooting, we pierce through the sky, And Echo turns hunter, and doubles the cry. JANUS Then our age was in its prime, CHRONOS Free from rage, DIANA —And free from crime. MOMUS A very merry, dancing, drinking, Laughing, quaffing, and unthinking time. CHORUS OF ALL Then our age was in its prime, Free from rage, and free from crime, A very merry, dancing, drinking, Laughing, quaffing, and unthinking time. Dance of Diana's attendants MARS Inspire the vocal brass, inspire; The world is past its infant age: Arms and honour, Arms and honour, Set the martial mind on fire, And kindle manly rage. Mars has look'd the sky to red; And peace, the lazy good, is fled. Plenty, peace, and pleasure fly; The sprightly green In woodland-walks, no more is seen; The sprightly green, has drunk the Tyrian dye. CHORUS OF ALL Plenty, peace, |&|c. MARS Sound the trumpet, beat the drum, Through all the world around; Sound a reveille, sound, sound, The warrior god is come. CHORUS OF ALL Sound the trumpet, |&|c. MOMUS Thy sword within the scabbard keep, And let mankind agree; Better the world were fast asleep, Than kept awake by thee. The fools are only thinner, With all our cost and care; But neither side a winner, For things are as they were. CHORUS OF ALL The fools are only, |&|c. Enter VENUS VENUS Calms appear, when storms are past; Love will have his hour at last: Nature is my kindly care; Mars destroys, and I repair; Take me, take me, while you may, Venus comes not ev'ry day. CHORUS OF ALL Take her, take her, |&|c. CHRONOS The world was then so light, I scarcely felt the weight; Joy rul'd the day, and love the night. But since the Queen of Pleasure left the ground, I faint, I lag, And feebly drag The pond'rous Orb around. All, all of a piece throughout; pointing{}}to Diana{}} MOMUS, Thy chase had a beast in view; to Mars Thy wars brought nothing about; to Venus Thy lovers were all untrue. JANUS 'Tis well an old age is out, And time to begin a new. CHORUS OF ALL All, all of a piece throughout; Thy chase had a beast in view; Thy wars brought nothing about; Thy lovers were all untrue. 'Tis well an old age is out, And time to begin a new.