From trickle to the rapid,
A day in many streams,
All drops turn weak and vapid,
But race like troubled dreams,

For leans on hands of time,
Are fraught with hidden pain,
Nothing shall stop to rhyme,
All things shall leave the same,

For in time's long unending reach,
To the divine eternity,
All slips away and drags to teach,
Are not man's arms too short to hold the time.

When tripping makes the fool a sage,
I seem to stumble on a baffling note,
There is lunch without cost - I gauge,
A witness to the loosened lunch,
Unless strong eyes fail and mouth become,
An arid desert, parched beyond profoundly dead,
Empty as to the pit to which it gapes,
Swallowing dreams of dreams of smells,
Too far removed to be as freely mine.

Surely man walks a shadow in the day,
And cowers in dark places all the day long,
Yet you have made me a child of light,
And from darkness I am rent,
And to light I live with my Lord free.