I've been to see him seven times all told
To look upon the age-old face and hands
That reach in death-like blindness where he stands
In glory forged from darkness not from gold.

He governs time and death with steady sweep
Of his sharp scythe. He bars all thought of rest
But carries on his endless ploughing, lest
We should forget the everlasting sleep

Why do I wonder at this lump of stone
And time and time again do make return
To ponder, think and also try to learn
Of time, it's shape and see it's threads be sewn?