When to the common rest that crowns our days,
    Called in the noon of life, the good man goes,
    Or full of years, and ripe in wisdom, lays
    His silver temples in their last repose;
    When, o’er the buds of youth, the death-wind blows,
    And blights the fairest; when our bitter tears
    Stream, as the eyes of those that love us close,
    We think on what they were, with many fears
Lest goodness die with them, and leave the coming years…

– From “Ages” by William Cullen Bryant

I think of you, and time stops flat.
For time means nothing at the end:
The years fade out like photographs,
And all that is, is what has been –

There is no burying my heart,
I’d walk a hundred thousand trails:
For desert waste won’t keep away
The love that lives
When all else
Fails