The Hour Glass

I am but an hour-glass.
These tiny glinting grains
Comprise my store of seconds,
My sum of joys and pains.

Thus much of time-bound life, no more,
Is my allotted span.
Measured and sealed within this space,
My cosmic run began.

This upper womb of glass contains
My dwindling stock of time -
My fast-decreasing future tale,
Or sordid, or sublime.

This lower holds the life now spent,
For better, or for worse,
Behold, among the lighter grains,
The darker intersperse.

Above, my sands are settling
In a hollow downward cone,
Below, a growing mountain forms
Of moments that have flown.

But though all motion ceases
With the fall of that last grain,
Yet never a particle is lost.
The whole life shall remain.

Beyond the grave, no gravity
Shall bow me down to earth;
Nor shall the weariness of time
Oppress my second birth.

Weightless in eternity,
Though new-turned by that hand
Which first set my frail vessel down,
I fear no run of sand.

Undiminishing, I abide,
From time and space set free;
At once to know as I am known,
And, knowing, joy to be.


Ralph Hill
Bexhill-on -Sea Meeting