I saw Time in his workshop carving faces; <br />Scattered around his tools lay, blunting griefs, <br />Sharp cares that cut out deeply in reliefs <br />Of light and shade; sorrows that smooth the traces <br />Of what were smiles. Nor yet without fresh graces <br />His handiwork, for ofttimes rough were ground <br />And polished, oft the pinched made smooth and round; <br />The calm look, too, the impetuous fire replaces. <br />Long time I stood and watched; with hideous grin <br />He took each heedless face between his knees, <br />And graved and scarred and bleached with boiling tears. <br />I wondering turned to go, when, lo! my skin <br />Feels crumpled, and in glass my own face sees <br />Itself all changed, scarred, careworn, white with years.<br /><br />Frederick George Scott<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/time-14/
