Let he, like I, of whom with dimming light:
Does view the setting sun within his glass;
By his depressed, or decade's bitter sight;
With stare of sombre eyes, his hours pass,
Onto himself may wish his furrows filled;
And brighter sun complex upon his face;
By reminiscence make what years had splilled;
That he may shine within back yonder grace:
Dear friend, decay has not yet creased your heart;
Why spend the seconds bitter of your years?
Your face is yours as born it's youthful start,
Enough of time is bitter, minus tears!

For we of time; may seek where ours began
Creating merely time's unhappy fan.