Like beggars, lame and dull of heart,
Past me the long days creep
From unsought wakening
To unsought sleep.
And yet the years like hot-foot thieves
Run softly, nimbly by,
As though from fierce pursuit
They needs must fly.
Sage, you are old and well content:
Can all your wisdom show
What I, being young and sad,
Still seek to know?
Then say-how come the years to seem so swift,
The days, the days so slow?