The grasping tones of the chime
Surge across the emptiness of space;
An unerring tentacle of time
Binding all in its embrace.

Light and shadow of demanding day
Draft from each their due;
Blending into casts of grey,
Descending into deepest blue.

Marching months keep their tread
From field to field of strife;
The crimson flow of brightest red
Drains from each the zest for life.

The muffled drum beneath the breast
Strikes the cadence in measured pace;
Ever, ever onward without rest
Toward the finish of the race.

Shades of blackness soon descend,
Like the curtain on the play;
A somber chillness in the wind
Portends the closure of the day.

The brilliant whiteness of the Light
Beckons from the recess of gloom;
Marking the limits of the night,
Opening into a bright new room.