The Currency of Time

So much of time has drifted down the stream,

That "sorry" and "thank you" are empty now;

We wake from what was once a living dream,

And ask no pardon, nor will make a bow.

No one remains to listen or to speak,

The doors are closed against the quiet plea;

Though true the love we once were bold to seek,

It drowned beneath a vast, indifferent sea.

The days are priceless, bought with breath and bone,

Yet feelings stand like trifles in the dust;

We walk the heavy miles of earth alone,

Where time has eaten every ancient trust.