And sternly bade her go her way. 
Said Time, “ Were all the world to plead 
They should not live another day, 
No, not if Death did intercede! ”— 
He took his scythe and at one sweep 
The flowers became a withered heap. 
Time came again, and so did Spring ; 
The spot once more with flowers was strown, 
He scarce could see a ruined thing, 
So tall and thick the buds had grown. 
“ Oh, oh!” said Time, “ I must upturn, 
Dig deep, and cover in like Death ; 
I’ll not leave one behind to mourn, 
Or sweeten more the breeze’s breath : 
Full fathom five I’ll lay them low, 
Then leave them if they can to grow ! ” 
Summer met Time in that same place, 
It looked more lovely than of old, 
For there had sprung another race 
Of flowers from out the upturned mould, 
Which had been buried long ago. 
“ How’s this ? ” said Time, and rubbed his eyes. 
“ I have laid many a city low, 
But never more saw turret rise.”— 
Love at that moment chanced to pass, 
He touched Time’s arm, and shook his glass. 
