There aren't sufficient hours in the day
For anything I really want to do.
The hours that I hold will slip away;
The minutes that were mine will do so too.
Whatever time I thought I had to be
The man I wanted is not guaranteed;
Moments appointed for my ecstacy
May melt away despite my desperate need.
I do not spend this time: it merely goes
And leaves me void and utterly bereft;
I cannot calculate its sudden flows,
Nor understand the reason why it left
Save that, by nature, every hour leaves
And man, abandoned in those moments, grieves.
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