From the Evening Star, January 13, 1913. By Philander Johnson. We all know a fellow called Old Father Time. He has taught us in prose, he has frivoled in rhyme. One day he will give us a song or a laugh And the next he is writing a short epitaph. The way he jogs on is so quietly queer We seldom remember his presence so near. But he measures our steps as we falter or climb. He keeps tabs on us all, does this Old Father Time. But his hand is so gentle, although it is strong, That he helps us a lot as he leads us along. And the ruins that rise on the hills of the past He covers with ivy and roses at last. He teaches the smiles of the present to glow, While the sorrows are left to the long, long ago. And the knell turns to joy in its merriest chime— He’s a pretty good fellow, is Old Father Time.
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