X-sonnet

SONNET FOR ANOTHER'S BIRTHDAY

Time is a treasure that can be but spent,
Not heaped up like the miser's hidden gold,
Not stored against some distant ill event,
No matter how we'd like to hoard and hold.
The minutes trickle through the open hand
Like glittering gold dust, too fine to keep;
And even heaped as hours they will not stand,
Stolen by passing winds, even as we sleep.
But if it be well-spent, though seeming gone,
It is returned, enriched, like something lent
With interest, that still goes working on;
That still remains though seeming that it went.
The memoried growth, the deeds that make good measure,
Forever shine as everlasting treasure.