On the Shortness of Time

If I could live without the thought of death,Forgetful of time's waste, the soul's decay,I would not ask for other joy than breath,With light and sound of birds and the sun's ray.I could sit on untroubled day by dayWatching the grass grow, and the wild flowers rangeFrom blue to yellow and from red to greyIn natural sequence as the seasons change.I could afford to wait, but for the hurtOf this dull tick of time which chides my ear.But now I dare not sit with loins ungirtAnd staff unlifted, for death stands too near.I must be up and doing -- ay, each minute.The grave gives time for rest when we are in it.