This may be the answer
The more we live, more brief appear
Our life's succeeding stages :
A day to childhood seems a year,
And years like passing ages.
The gladsome current of our youth,
Ere passion yet disorders,
Steals lingering like a river smooth
Along its grassy borders.
But as the care-worn cheek grows wan,
And sorrow's shafts fly thicker,
Ye stars, that measure life to man,
Why seem your courses quicker ?
When joys have lost their bloom and breath,
And life itself is vapid,
Why, as we reach the Falls of Death
Feel we its tide more rapid ?
It may be strange; yet who would change
Time's course to slower speeding
When one by one our friends have gone,
And left our bosoms bleeding ?
Heaven gives our years of fading strength
Indemnifying fleetness ;
And those of youth, a seeming length,
Proportion'd to their sweetness.