Time’s Rush

 We are rushed through life
    As water through the stream,
  Grasping to catch the pebbles
    Long worn by Time's old dream.
And slipping by the moment now
We linger on what's aged so slow.

  The aeons in the rocks
    Are etched deep within their face.
  And that face appears to be
    The look of a weary pace.
We are young who see the world old 
And young we vanish from its hold.

  But though we have this youth,
    More than most contain,
  We still feel the awful stretch
    Made by being in pain.
This the curse of seeing all that be
While still bound by intensity.

  But the light that light reveals
    Glancing off the cosmos,
  Is the mirror endless
    Found in this same sadness.
So thus the sight of eyes that see 
Is the view of all eternity.

Featured image: ‘Wheatfield under thunderclouds,’ by Vincent Van Gogh (1890), image in the public domain.

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Poetical Fragments