Now pompous the minutes like holy monarchs Parade past the evening clock. The last stark moments of the day Have come to call, and in the distance, fall The footsteps of time's footsoldiers deep along the rock. The best impulses have all struck their marks— And the fresh hours of night's making, And dark's world quietly quaking Upon the body's pale and solemn undertaking Insure the long journey's safekeeping, Arriving at the worlds our dreams are seeking. Scarce has been overheard The voice of reason speaking. There has always come the sense of the absurd Into the last thoughts of the day, Which fill the body up with clay. The old stale dark time sleeping And the hours weeping And keeping us far away.© Ernest Slyman
(from Grape Poetry)