Within your hands you hold the wealth of years,
Old Time,— yes, all the gold of yesterday,
All of love's sunshine and the bitter gray
Of tears — oh, the great multitude of tears;
For everything is yours within the spheres
To give or take, or break, or keep for aye,
Nor heed you e'en one wild cry of dismay,
But gather on until all disappears.
Yet love is sweet and we are not so old,
Nor did the gods mean us to separate.
O Time you cannot take my love from me,
Life has so much, so very much to hold
For each,— I must not dream it is too late
And that we'll dwell no more in Arcady.