NUMBERED HOURS 
By JAMES A. SLOTE 
Six hundred and thirty thousand—then 
fceven hundred and twenty more 
Hours are yours at three score and ten. 
With perchance a few extra in store, 
Your clock is busy tolling them oif, 
These hours of your life as they go, 
While we are young at Time w* scoff, 
I But the pendelum swings to and fro. 
A register this of Father Time. 
Counts the hours both night and day 
For old and others in their prime 
And the careless child at play. 
In the busy day or the q net night, 
Counting the strokes it gave . 
I’ha thought comes with a touch of fright, 
We are one hour nearer the grave. 
The hours are hia—he takes them, too, 
Pleadings are so much chaff; 
For time began when the world was new, 
Destroying all things in his path. 
O, let him ring up our span of hours. 
As a miser counts his gold 
We’ll journey then to a land of flowers, 
To a ’Mand.where we never grow old*’. 
