Sonnet II

Tick-tock the clock keeps marching on, her pace
does race, her hands spin round, her face so still -
the face of Lady Time reflects. "Oh, chase
me not, sweet Lady Time" cry I, in chill,
so frightened tone. She heeds me not but, light,
runs on. Through silver ghostly leaves and groves
of shining phantom pines. Her dress of white
trails threads of mem'ry, cloaking thoughts of loves
long lost and scenes of passions yet to find.
I flee, and run and leap, near fly. Escape
escapes me; I am lost, while Time her kind
of magic strews. My past is past, her cape
of gauzy mem'ry closed and days
to come fly fleetly on their way.