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.