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.