Generally I have always had a deep loathing of poetry and poets. The only poet who ever appealed to me was Cassius Clay.
A long time ago I read a book which told of some individual being shot to death in Chicago. The following poem was found in his pocket, it was always regarded as an anonymous poem but the internet ascribes it to Robert H Smith whoever he is or was. It is the only poem I have ever remembered.
The Clock of Life
The clock of life is wound but once and no man has the power
To tell just when the hands will stop, at late or early hour.
To lose one's wealth is sad indeed, to lose one's health is more,
To lose one's soul is such a loss that no man can restore.
The only time we have is now, so live, love, toil at will,
Place no faith in time -- for the clock may then be still.
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