Time Passes Slowly; But Nonetheless

 Twilight in the Wilderness - Frederic Edwin Church, c.1860.

The ephemeral flame of the rubied sun,
Softly sinking in the mire;
Ablaze it lights upon the brook,
Where all that swirls now glistens in fire.

The wooded green where once we lay
To talk and laugh and smoke and drink;
Now held in twilight's fleeting grasp,
Time blows it softly to the brink.

Upon the stream where once we climbed
On pebble and rock through thicket deep;
Sol's languid eyes do gently droop,
Whilst shadows into mine do creep.

The laughter faded from these woods,
Where once it echoed in the brook,
And light now passes to the mire,
Whilst we chase after what time took.

For all the trees are peaceful now,
In broken wreaths of silver sheen,
And there's a darkness in its place,
Where once we lay upon the green.

Bathed in the golden rays of day,
We felt the power of its might;
But now I feel the cold of time,
Submerged in sleepless tears of night.