The early hours

Long hours have passed
And yet the morning breeze
Seems whisking past my face.
The tender chirp
Of sundry birds
The quiet fog
That beats round springs.
A younger heart
And wider eyes
That gaze the painted dawn.
Oh how I wished it would stay
Through the long hours of sultry day.
The childish Sun
Is fun to play with
Which later hardens harsh.
Youth is a like the slipping sand from my fist
Nothing stays but stains of greatness.