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Neil Gaiman
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When I do
Count the clock that tells the time
And see the brave day sunk
In hideous night
When I behold the violet, past prime
Sable curls all silver dore and white
When lofty trees I see
Barren of leaves
Which erst from heat
That cannopy the herd
And summer's green
All girded up in sheaves
Born on the bier
With white and gristly beard
Then of thy beauty
Do I question, make?
That thou amoung the wastes of time
Must go?
Since sweets and beauties, do themselves forsake and die
As fast as they see others grow
ย
And nothing
'Gainst time's scythe can make defence
Save greed
To brave him when he takes the axe
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