To Time it never seems that he is brave / To set himself against the peaks of snow / To lay them level with the running wave, / Nor is he overjoyed when they lie low, / But only grave, contemplative and grave.
What now is inland shall be ocean isle, / Then eddies playing round a sunken reef / Like the curl at the corner of a smile; / And I could share Time’s lack of joy or grief / At such a planetary change of style.
I could give all to Time except – except / What I myself have held. But why declare / The things forbidden that while the Customs slept / I have crossed to Safety with? For I am There, / And what I would not part with I have kept.
Robert Frost, „I could give all to time“