William Lisle Bowles

Sonnet 13. O Time!

O Time! who know'st a lenient hand to lay
Softest on sorrow's wound, and slowly thence,
(Lulling to sad repose the weary sense)
Stealest the long-forgotten pan away;
On Thee I rest my only hope at last,
And think, when thou hast dried the bitter tear
That flows in vain o'er all my soul held dear,
I may look back on many a sorrow pall,
And meet life's peaceful evening with a smile—
As some poor bird, at day's departing hour.
Sings in the sunbeam, of the transient shower
Forgetful, tho' its wings are wet the while:—
Yet ah! how much must that poor heart endure,
Which hopes from thee, and thee alone, a cure!