Lord Byron

To Time

Time, Time, who choosest All in the end well; Who severely refusest Fames upon trumpets blown Loud for a day, and alone Makest truth to excel: Shadow of God, slowly Gathering words, long Scorned, to make them holy, And deeds like stars bright That none perceived in the light, Lifting the weak to be strong: Shall I not praise thee, Thou just judge? Yet O What so long stays thee? Why must thy feet halt, While our tears grow salt And our old hopes go! Beauty is throned at last; Truth rings falsehood’s knell; But our strength, our joy is past While our hearts wait thee: Time, Time, I hate thee, Hate thee, and rebel.

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