Classic Poem

Time doth not fly, nor creep, nor crawl, nor run;
'Tis we that move; Time standeth vast and still,
And keepeth ward o'er valley and o'er hill,
While we, like dewdrops in the morning sun,
Gleam and are gone; Oh, say not then that Time
Moves slowly, swiftly; Time is young as when
The first-born of the haughty race of men
Rose up and dared death with a soul sublime.
The Summer, Autumn, Winter, and the Spring
Stand in amaze as we speed wildly by,
And Nature's self is ever wondering
That we so soon upon her bosom die.
Say not Time goes, 'tis hasting man who flees,
While stand agape the startled centuries.