Time's Monotone

Autumn and Winter, Summer and Spring-- Hath Time no other song to sing? Weary we grow of the changeless tune-- June--December, December--June! Time, like a bird, hath but one song, One way to build, like a bird hath he; Thus hath he built so long, so long, Thus hath he sung--Ah me! Time, like a spider, knows, be sure, One only wile, though he seems so wise: Death is his web, and Love his lure, And you and I his flies. 'Love!' he sings In the morning clear, 'Love! Love! Love!' And you never hear How, under his breath, He whispers, 'Death! Death! Death!' Yet Time--'tis the strangest thing of all-- Knoweth not the sense of the words he saith; Eternity taught him his parrot-call Of 'Love and Death.' Year after year doth the old man climb The mountainous knees of Eternity, But Eternity telleth nothing to Time-- It may not be.