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A Clock Striking Midnight
Hark to the echo of Time’s footsteps; gone Thise moments are into the unseen grave Of ages. Thy have vanished nameless. None, While they are deep under the eddying wave Of the chaotic past, shall placea stone Sacred to these, the nurses of the brave, The mighty, and the good. Futurity Broods on the ocean, hatching ‘neath her wing Invisible to man the century, That on its hundered feet, a sluggish thing Gnawing away the world, shall totter by And sweep dead mortals with it. As I sing Time, the colossus of the world, that strides With each foot plunged in darkness silent glides, And puffs death’s cloud upon us. It is vain To struggle with the tide; we all must sink Still grasping the thin air, with frantic pain Grappling with Fame to buoy us. Can we think Eternity, by whom swift Time is slain, And dragged along to dark destruction’s brink, Shall be the echo of man’s puny words? Or that our grovelling thoughts shall e’er be writ In never fading stars; or like proud birds Undazzled in their cloud-built eyrie sit Clutching the lightning, or in darting herds Diving amid the sea’s vast treasury flit? Sink, painted clay, back to thy parent earth While the glad spirit seeks a brighter birth.
Thomas Lovell Beddoes's other poems:
Количество обращений к стихотворению: 2110
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