Gone Poem by James L. A. Huetson

Gone



Time marches on my friend.
Each hour that's gone, my friend, is spent there's not another.
One less for use my brother. Time gone is treasure spent.
It can't be spent or lent. Gone it's too late for lament.

There are men who search for gold,
men who for treasure suffer strife.
Suddenly they find that they're old
with nothing to show for their life.

Time marches on my friend.
Each hour that's gone, my friend, is spent there's not another.
One less for use my brother. Time gone is treasure spent.
It can't be spent or lent. Gone it's too late for lament.

Your days are few. Your life will pass
and at the end you will find
each moment was a grain in your hour glass.
Each wasted one a ghost in your mind.

Time marches on my friend.
Each hour that's gone, my friend, is spent there's not another.
One less for use my brother. Time gone is treasure spent.
It can't be spent or lent. Gone it's too late for lament.

Each minute that has gone has passed for good.
Each hour gone will never come again.
So use each day to foster brotherhood
with your life spent in service to men.

Time marches on my friend.
Each hour that's gone, my friend, is spent there's not another.
One less for use my brother. Time gone is treasure spent.
It can't be spent or lent. Gone it's too late for lament.

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