The Everflowing Stream

I ponder oft this currency called Time

That spends itself e’en as I write this rhyme.

How best to spend this precious, waning gold;

It glitters best in passion of sweet labor,

But scolds in heart’s regret coinage fruitlessly sold.

So then, o Time, how bless’d in every second tick’d –

A drop in the finite stream – art thou so

That even in the breast of darkness wick’d

I am to never be lavish wi’ thee in show?

Art thou then borrowed from a banker’s bank,

Where in that truth I owe much with naught to savor

As my own, for every drop wast’d is mine to thank?

Thus then, I hence confess to fear this debt

With its increasing loss and lossless fret.