Now I grow old
Time eyes my landmarks. Time, becoming bold
Snarls at my heels.
Unfinished hopes clog in the clock’s mad wheels.
Grinning Apollyon stands across my way;
Where is the armour that I should have made,
The fine-wrought weapon of the unafrai d?
To work on them I was allowed the day
And lost it in the lethargy of dream.
Time eyes my landmarks. Time, becoming bold
Snarls at my heels.
Unfinished hopes clog in the clock’s mad wheels.
Grinning Apollyon stands across my way;
Where is the armour that I should have made,
The fine-
To work on them I was allowed the day
And lost it in the lethargy of dream.
Anthony Woodhouse
My mother, Josephine (who viewed “lady poets” with scorn and preferred the pseudonym Anthony) was born in 1909.
She took a First at Oxford and won the Newdigate Prize for English Verse.
Words and knowledge