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Time starts ticking, the moment one is born,
Appearing too short for things to be done;
And Time ceases when over is sojourn;
To some ’tis long and ’tis always great fun.
Time is so precious that some waste it not;
So they race ’gainst it, to pull off great feats;
Time is a web in which some men get caught;
However short, one still can be a Keats!
A Scientist’s life-time’s not enough for him;
A lazy-bone finds Time not fleeting still;
Time’s an empty vessel, tho’ filled to brim!
Time’s a feeling of descending the hill.
When prudently used then, Time appears long;
A mile to a fool is just a furlong.
7-19-2000
Dr John Celes
Read poems about / on: fun, time, sonnet
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