The sea of the years that endure not
⁠Whose tide shall endure till we die
And know what the seasons assure not,
⁠If death be or life be a lie,
Sways hither the spirit and thither,
⁠A waif in the swing of the sea
Whose wrecks are of memories that wither
⁠As leaves of a tree.

We hear not and hail not with greeting
⁠The sound of the wings of the years,
The storm of the sound of them beating,
⁠That none till it pass from him hears: