It has been so glad a world since the coming of the morn;—
Oft I wondered, when I met any souls who seemed forlorn;
And I scarce gave heed to those who were old or travel worn.
Mayhap I have loved too well all the merry fleeting things;
Run too lightly with the wind,— chased too many shining wings;
Thought too seldom of the night, and the silence that it brings.
Well I fear me I have been but an idler in the sun;
All unfinished are the tasks long and long ago begun;—
In the dark perchance they weep, who have left their work undone.
And I know each black-frocked friar preacheth sermons that, alas!
Fain would halt the dancing feet of those careless ones who pass,
Down a sweet and primrose path, through the ribbons of the grass.
Silver-clock! O Silver-clock! It was only yesterday
Dandelions flecked the field, starry-bright and gold and gay;
You are but the ghost of one — little globe of silver-grey!
Tell me — tell me of the hour,— for there is so much to do!
Is it early? Is it late? Fairy-clock! O tell me true,
As I blow you down the wind, out upon a road of blue!