Move On

The hour is late, and yet not late enough
For my desires. Were I master here,
The very clock itself would feel my rough
And forceful grasp, and I would quickly peer
Into the motion of the minute hand
Ordering its march to quicken through the day
That every hour should hasten 'round the band
And time flow faster than right now it may.
Alas, I do not rule the pace of life,
Nor may I bend its passage to my will;
So I am subject to uneven strife
And in my terrors, time seems to stand still.
Move on, move on, and do not look at me;
For I am not what in time I might be.