There is full measure in each hour of time,
It does not lack one minute;
The days and nights are scaled the same,
Each year has twelve months in it.
A week is made of seven days,
It does not ask for more;
A fortnight measures two full weeks,
I'm sure you know the score.
The son has shined to give us light,
To do our work each day;
But we would like to change the place,
And add some time for play.
If every week was one month long,
Or a day was like a year;
We would have time upon our hands,
Or grope around in fear.
This year, that bids us now, farewell,
Has a record of each day;
Our fondest hopes, at the tasks undone,
And the time we spent in play.
-Elizabeth Wallace Morehead-
Copyright owned by the
Wallace and Morehead
families.
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