The poem
Time, the Jester, jeers at you; Your life's a fleeting breath; Your birthday's flimsy I.O.U. To that old devil, Death. And though to glory you attain, Or be to beauty born, Your pomp and vanity are vain: Time ticks you off with scorn.
Time, the Cynic, sneers at you, And stays you in your stride; He flouts the daring deeds you do, And pillories your pride. The triumph of your yesterday He pages with the Past; He taunts you with the grave's decay And calls the score at last.
All this I now, yet what care I! Despite his dusty word, I hold my tattered banner high, And swing my broken sword. In blackest night I glimpse a gleam, And nurse a faith sublime, To do, to dare, to hope, to dream, to fight you, Foeman Time; Yea, in the dark, a deathless beam To smite you, Tyrant Time.