Classic Poem

How rich hath Time become through her,
His sands are turned to purest gold!
And yet it grieves my heart full sore
To see them slipping from my hold.
How precious now each moment is,
Which I must cast like ash away!
My only hope and comfort this—
Each moment will return that day,
On that blest day, that joyful hour
When she lies willing in my power.

Nay, these rich moments are not lost,
But, like the morning's dewdrops, which
Into the sun their brief lives cast,
To make his body far more rich—
So do these precious moments glide
Into her being, where they store;
Until I clasp her as my bride,
And get them back with thousands more;
Where they have banked in her dear breast,
And saved themselves with interest.