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