Classic Poem

Long hours I've waited to be free
From the place I hoarded;
And often I'd ponder of time —
If days were months, would weeks be years?

Not to disturb my natural tendency
To climb in deep reprove
Of the fair weathered skies' wide outlook —
That yonder space — I loved to move
As they — but to be home ...
Felt I, if days were months, would weeks be years?

But the days were moments to my work;
I felt the close too soon!
E'er a glance at the beautiful distance —
The days seemed months and weeks were years.