Poetry

The clock of life is wound but once
 

No man has the power; To tell just when the hands will stop


Late or early hour


To lose one 's wealth is sad indeed

To lose one's health is more


To use one's soul is such a lost

That no man can restore


The present only is our own

To seek to do God's will;Tomorrow holds no promises-


For the Clock may then be still.




Ref: On the back of my Father's business card.