I saw Time in his workshop carving faces; br Scattered around his tools lay, blunting griefs, br Sharp cares that cut out deeply in reliefs br Of light and shade; sorrows that smooth the traces br Of what were smiles. Nor yet without fresh graces br His handiwork, for ofttimes rough were ground br And polished, oft the pinched made smooth and round; br The calm look, too, the impetuous fire replaces. br Long time I stood and watched; with hideous grin br He took each heedless face between his knees, br And graved and scarred and bleached with boiling tears. br I wondering turned to go, when, lo! my skin br Feels crumpled, and in glass my own face sees br Itself all changed, scarred, careworn, white with years.