Do they measure time where thou art? Dost thou know
How the immutable, relentless years,
Delaying not for human hopes or fears,
In long processionals still come and go?
When, as of old, thy summer roses blow,
Art thou aware, thou who art done with tears?
O blessed habitant of other spheres,
Takest thou heed of Earth’s hoar-frost and snow?
We count the years, and tell them, one by one,
Since thy feet trod the path where silence is;
How oft the harvest moon has waned! we say.
Dost thou remember when thy rest was won?
Or art thou like to the high Gods in this,
That unto thee a year is but a day?