In two or twenty years may cross, 

We see the days, they sun and roll.

The time, it runs, its feel, no loss,

For what we feel, not deep nor shoal.

It never comes, it never goes.

It never leaves our side in times.

It never leaves incessant throws.

But always marks itself with climbs.

As days go bye, it settles in.

It will not change, but you, it mimes.

It has no zeal. It has no sin,

But leaves a mark for future’s crimes.

One day, when cold, and stopped and downed,

And days go bye to reel the fill, 

And whether you’re in splash or ground,

For bye and bye your echoes spill.