But at my back I always hear Time's winged chariot hurrying near.

My vegetable love will grow Vaster than empires, and more slow.

Now therefore, while the youthful hue Sits on thy skin like morning dew, And while thy willing soul transpires At every pore with instant fires, Now let us sport us while we may, And now, like amorous birds of prey, Rather at once our time devour Than languish in his slow-chapt power.

But at my back I always hear Time’s wingèd chariot hurrying near; And yonder all before us lie Deserts of vast eternity.

Thus, though we cannot make our sun Stand still, yet we will make him run.