Running out
If you let the time run through your fingers like grains of sand, you’ll regret having missed the best of them
If you let the time run through your fingers like grains of sand, you’ll regret having missed the best of them
by James McCarthy.
Faces which have mouldered, mouldered slowly ‘Neath the hillside turf these many years, Come back with you, O spring flowers so lowly, Filling my fond eyes with tender tears