Random meditations upon time

Time, the hours, like tall towers, piled;
Time that makes a mother from a child;
Time that files the mountain to a plain;
Time that finds the cause and heals the pain;
Time that plants the seed and makes it grow;
Time, the river, in which all rivers flow;
Time that pulls the grass out of the ground;
Time that spins the universe around;
Time that paints the darkening shades of night
and, over them, paints new dawn, golden bright;
Time that pulls the beard from infant chins
and, wisely used, helps the victor to win;
Time that sweeps great clouds across the sky
and, out of an egg, makes a thing that flies;
Time that fills the field with golden grain
and tomorrow will mow it down again;
Time that carves a mountain from a stone
and etches each small wrinkle on a crone;
that polishes and sets each twinkling star
and, like elastic, stretches near to far;
Time that presses flowers in our hearts
and shatters walls that keep lovers apart;
Time, the tide that draws upon the moon;
who makes a scholar out of a buffoon;
Time that weaves small flames into a fire
and, from brief encounters, builds lifelong desires;
Time whose kneading hands turn seeds to bread
and, word by word, with wisdom, fill the head;
Time who blows the swallows back and forth
that, at six, made the south; at twelve, the North;
Time, a mystery only time can solve,
Time whose hands, the hands of time, revolve.
Time, I could dwell on you all day long
and, about you, write another thousand words
but there must be an end to every song
and I think it’s time that final line was heard.