Frederick George Scott




I saw Time in his workshop carving faces;
    Scattered around his tools lay, blunting griefs,
    Sharp cares that cut out deeply in reliefs
Of light and shade; sorrows that smooth the traces
Of what were smiles. Nor yet without fresh graces
    His handiwork, for ofttimes rough were ground
    And polished, oft the pinched made smooth and round;
The calm look, too, the impetuous fire replaces.

Long time I stood and watched; with hideous grin,
    He took each heedless face between his knees,

        And graved and scarred and bleached with boiling tears.
I wondering turned to go, when lo! my skin
    Feels crumpled, and in glass my own face sees
        Itself all changed, scarred, careworn, white with years. [Page 137]