The Years.

A poem by Theodore Harding Rand

"Time in advance behind him hides his wings." - YOUNG.

As comes amain the glossy flying raven,
That with unwavering wing, breast on the view,
Cleaves slow the lucid air beneath the blue,
And seems scarce other than a figure graven -
Ha! now the sweeping pinions flash as levin,
And all their silken cordage whistles loud! -
Lo, the departing flight, like fleck of cloud,
Is swallowed quick by the awaiting heaven!

So lag and tarry, to the youth, the years
In their oncoming from the brooding sky,
Till bursts at middle life their rushing speed
All breathless with the world of hopes and fears;
And, lo, departing, the Eternal Eye
Winks them to moments in His endless brede!

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