The hours wander by without much reason;
It's in their nature, though, so I don't care.
Too soon it will become the winter season;
I don't much like it, but I will be there.
Perhaps in time I will care more about
These random walks that hours seem to take.
And if that's true, then I can hardly doubt
I'll blame the seasons that combine to make
The hours move along. If seasons were
Content to stay incipient or past
The hours could stay with us, and I'm sure
That happy days would choose to everlast.
But seasons come and go as they may please
And do not let the hours take their ease.
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