The Clock of Life
The Clock of Life is wound but once
And no one has the power
To say just when the hands will stop
At a late or early hour.
To lose one's wealth is sad indeed
To lose one's health is more.
To lose one's soul is such a loss
That no man can restore.
The present only is our own.
So live, love and work with a will
Place little faith in tomorrow
For the clock may then be still!
--Robert H. Smith
My grandfather took to quoting this poem at family gatherings in the last years of his life. If he recited it in other times, I do not remember. Whether he knew or loved other poetry I also do not know.
The day before he died, my uncle asked him--as a man who had gambled his way through life for the better part of 80 years--why it was he wasn't a rich man. Without batting an eye, he replied, "Slow horses and fast women."
A fitting epitaph for the rascal that he was.
Goodbye Grandpa.
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