The hours steal by with still, nasking hips So lightly that I cannot hear their tread;
And softly touch me with their finger-tips
To find if I be dreaming, or be dead.
And yet however still their flight may be,
Their ceaseless going weighs my heart with tears;
These touches will have wrought deep scars on me -
When the light hours have worn to heavy years.
~Ella Higginson

1. Identify the tone of this poem.