Sonnet XXVII

How yesterday is long ago!

The

Is a fixed infinite distance from to-day,

And bygone things, the first-lived as the last,

In irreparable sameness far away.

How the to-be is infinitely

Out of the place wherein it will be Now,

Like the seen wave yet far up in the river,

Which reaches not us, but the new-waved flow!

This thing Time is, whose being is having none,

The equable tyrant of our different fates,

Who could not be bought off by a shattered

Or tricked by new use of our careful dates.  This thing Time is, that to the grave-will bear  My heart, sure but of it and of my fear.