Retort To Time
The crispness of your knife goes snick!
Cutting up my dreams like celery,
To make hors d’oeuvres that you, Time, pick
And gobble till you’ve swallowed me.
But while you cut, your blade will knick
Hard upon my iron bone;
It trims me to the very quick—
But still, my skull will dull its hone.
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