It runs — it runs — the hourglass turning,
Dark sands glooming, bright sands burning,
I turn, and turn, with heavy or hopeful hands,
So must I turn as long as the Voice commands,
But I lose all count of the hours in watching the sliding sands.

Or fast, or slow, it ceases turning,
Ceases the flow, or bright or burning —
" What have you done with the hours? " the voice demands;
What can I say of eager or careless hands?
I had forgotten the hours in watching the sliding sands.