Gripe

The malicious windings of your hasty pace That erase sweet memories and their trace Waste things that breathes and ones mute; Pitiless Time, you are such a ruthless brute! If you only aged men who your dials mess, Or only blighted the cute ignorant mistress Who thinks that your clocks tick for naught; Then yours would be a war honestly fought. But in your cruel rounds of unjustified rage You smite the harmless poet with old age, And thus anon halt scribblings of their pen, And dull his wits beyond their laudable ken. Perhaps no one has rebuked your wanton brutality, And maybe you'd grant a poet's pursuit for eternity – But if in your undue use of force you snuff my breath, Then at least leave this humble verse in intact health.