CLOCK-TICKS AND HEART-BEATS.
Threescore years and ten
Man draweth his mortal breath;
As the flower of the grass doth he fade and pass,
In the blight of the blast of death.
The moments come, and the moments part,
With silent pinions spread;
Each tick of the clock, and each throb of the heart
Is the knell of a moment dead.
Hark to the clock’s light tick!
Time flies.
Hark to the heart-beats quick!
Man dies! Threescore years and ten,
That slip like grasped sands—
Too brief, too brief for selfish grief,
Too brief for folded hands!
Go forth in the might of a love sublime,
And ere thou fall as a leaf,
Thou shalt reap from the fading fields of time
A deathless harvest sheaf.
Hark to the clock’s light tick!
Time flies.
Hark to the heart-beats quick!
Man dies! —From the Quiver.