Poem

Subtly, so subtly, the workings of Time

Must alter the shape of the outer shell

Of a body once vibrant and molded so well!

Slowly, but surely, like a wood-boring worm,

Out of the gloom of a perilous clime,

Firm in the grasp of a seasonable term,

Comes the chill-laden wintry spell

Of sad infirmity in a dismal sphere;

Lost in the woods of a cherished dream,

In the thickening fog of Nature’s scheme,

Midst muffled sounds of distant strains,

Are years past that had known no fear

Of time and age; what now remains

Eternity must rightly redeem.