You ask me, sir, to tell the cause
Why nature changes in her laws;
And why, in youth, time lags so slow,
But flies so swift as old we grow.
I’ll tell thee, friend. Lay not the blame,
Nor call old time “a fickle dame.”
She heeds you not, nor will she stay,
To stop your progress or decay.
When you were young, like other boys,
You sought anticipated joys;
And when for future years you pined,
You thought not of those left behind.
You watched for years, for weeks, and days
To come, to bring your wished-for plays;
And, with our future good in view,
Time lags behind to me and you.
We measure not by running sands,
Nor by the clock’s revolving hands;
But think old time must run and fly,
To bring our wished-for objects nigh.
But, when we to the object come,
We think old time must cease to run,
And be obedient to our need:
To walk or fly, as we shall speed.
So the vain youth, to imitate
Follies and vices of the great,
Longs for the day of liberty,
When he from guardians may be free.
Old time revolves at slowest pace
When we’re most eager for the race.
In youth or age, in hope or fear,
He walks or runs, till death draws near.
– William Miller (published in Sylvester Bliss’ Memoirs of William Miller)
