The Thief of Time

Bound by trance to this spindled kitchen chair,

I ,in the leathern gloom of  dawn alone await,

Some act of will, that will fresh words or deeds create,

And from thought-smothered thought , my liberation dare.

In a house, where love is rent, and touch is cold ,

And all achievement’s dues languish yet unpaid,

Of this day the thief of time a purse has made,

And gathers hours, like coins, into its puckered fold.

As with  gotten gain he stole to  midday’s door,

My open window the purse’s mouth became,

Distant children s voices ,cheering in a   schoolyard game,

Like silver pence rained out ,tinkling on the floor.

And then , to live life’s worth ,I learned this truth:

Greet every morning as it were your unspent youth.