royal sonnet

Did the sun not long ago hang,
above our heads at midday?
Just as now, the blackbirds sang,
but now the sun has slipped away.
He silent rides the warm spring breeze,
and nears the clearing lip of earth,
nestling brightly in the trees,
as if beauty has already given birth.
It was not long ago the day was young,
but it was long enough.
Just a while ago the blackbirds sung,
but no longer do I here such stuff.
For the sun has fallen fast,
swallowed silently in the clouds at last.
Swallow the gray guilt of waste–
a golden day has gone unused,
and leaves a metallic, bitter taste,
as time knows it has been abused.
It was not promised to be long;
in fact it was often said to fade,
to pass like a wind or a blackbird's song,
and into the night to wade.
The hopes of cherishing the daylight,
seemed wise when all your eyes could see–
were those bright beams now out if sight,
and tomorrow may never be:
The sun may just now cease to burn,
and though you yearn, may not return.
To yearn for what may never come,
is to miss out on what has arrived.
Though you can sing you only hum,
and of this present present are deprived.
But the past, too, we cannot explore,
just wonder what might have been–
had we been thankful for more,
and lived our lives out then;
had rambled in the grass so green,
and not been working in a stuffy room;
if we had breathed in what was seen,
then perhaps we would smile to see the gloom–
it would be a comfort, not surprise,
to feel clouds pulled over above our eyes.
Eyes that have taken in are ready to close;
still watching, they have seen the sun;
I long for such eyes as those,
which do not cry from sorrow when days are done.
Not all days are given sunshine,
and not all hearts find it in their day.
Do not for what is present pine,
and in the past or future waste away.
Our hands were not that formed the days,
and we cannot see in night.
We have only to choose our present ways,
to run for that always in light.
You cannot hang on though you may try;
still the days disappear like the sun from the sky.