Fly, envious Time, till thou run out thy race, <br />Call on the lazy leaden-stepping hours, <br />Whose speed is but the heavy plummet's pace; <br />And glut thyself with what thy womb devours, <br />Which is no more than what is false and vain, <br />And merely mortal dross; <br />So little is our loss, <br />So little is thy gain. <br />For when as each thing bad thou hast intombed, <br />And last of all thy greedy self consumed, <br />Then long Eternity shall greet our bliss <br />With an individual kiss, <br />And Joy shall overtake us as a flood; <br />When every thing that is sincerely good <br />And perfectly divine, <br />With truth, and peace, and love, shall ever shine <br />About the supreme throne <br />Of Him, t' whose happy-making sight alone <br />When once our heav'nly-guided soul shall climb, <br />Then, all this earthly grossness quit, <br />Attired with stars, we shall for ever sit, <br />Triumphing over Death, and Chance, and thee, O Time.<br /><br />John Milton<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/on-time/
