The grave's a fine and private place, But none, I think, do there embrace.
But at my back I always hear Time’s wingèd chariot hurrying near.
But at my back I always hear Time’s wingèd chariot hurrying near; And yonder all before us lie Deserts of vast eternity.
Had we but world enough and time, This coyness, lady, were no crime. We would sit down, and think which way To walk, and pass our long love’s day.
Had we but world enough, and time...
Thus, though we cannot make our sun Stand still, yet we will make him run.
