Wednesday, 26 February 2014
What the Minutes Say
Each one furnished with sixty wings,
With which we fly on our unseen track;
And not a minute ever comes back.
We are but minutes; each one bears
A little burden of joys and cares;
Take patiently the minutes of pain;
The worst of minutes cannot remain.
We are but minutes. When we bring
A few drops from pleasure's spring,
Taste their sweetness while ye may;
It takes but a minute to fly away.
We are but minutes. Use us well;
For how we are used we must one day tell.
Who uses minutes, has hours to use;
Who loses minutes, whole years must lose.
Published in The Witness, 13th February 1914