The Hours

However much time there is in the day, it is never sufficient for my wants. I fear that I will only be satisfied when I no longer look to leaving, but only to coming.


The Hours

The hours that we make
are not our own. The few,
apportioned and awake,
erratically accrue

and dissipate, again,
with similar caprice.
If we could only pen
a well-established peace

or sleepy solitude,
our longing could abate,
and I should never brood
the hour, ever late.