This Day Never Comes Again

Why do we heap huge mounds of years,
Before us and behind,
And scorn the little days that pass
Like angels on the wind?

Each, turning round a small, sweet face
As beautiful as near,
Because it is so small a face
We will not see it clear.

And so it turns from us, and goes
Away in sad disdain;
Though we could give our lives for it,
It never comes again.