The poem unfolds as two voices in sharp contrast. First comes the cry of a tormented heart — life itself — insisting that time is pure sorrow. It pictures time hunted down by shadowy ghosts of old wounds and sickening thoughts, stalked by hours whose eyes read loss in bloodred lines. The tone is feverish, almost claustrophobic, as grief piles up with nowhere to go.
Then a second, calmer voice breaks in. It might be time answering, gently refusing that label. “Nay, but rest is born of me for healing.” Where the first speaker saw only pain, this one offers stillness. The whole weary world, tired of chasing the sun through twelve grinding hours, finds not a blaze of revelation but something quieter. Tired eyes at last are blessed — not with rapture, but with rest. The mood shifts from bitter despair into a worn-out, almost tender peace, as if the poem itself exhales.