How did it get so late so soon? Its night before its afternoon.

“How did it get so late so soon? It’s night before it’s afternoon. December is here before it’s June. My goodness how the time has flewn. How did it get so late so soon?” Thus wrote Dr. Seuss, the playful sage whose rhymes often carried truths deeper than their whimsical tones. In these lines he gave voice to a lament as old as humankind—the astonishment at the swiftness of passing days, the bewilderment at how life slips through our grasp like water through the fingers. Though he clothed his wisdom in childlike rhythm, the heart of his words is heavy with the weight of mortality.

The meaning is plain, yet profound. Time is the one treasure given to all in equal measure, and yet it departs faster than the eye can follow. What feels like a long morning becomes afternoon before one has blinked; what feels like the blossom of June turns quickly to the frost of December. Dr. Seuss asks not with bitterness but with awe, as though standing at the edge of a great mystery: why does the span of our lives seem so fleeting? His question echoes that of the ancients, who spoke of time as a devouring god, Saturn who consumes his children, or as a river that flows endlessly, carrying us toward the sea of death.

History itself gives us vivid reminders of this truth. Consider the life of Alexander Hamilton, who, in his youth, burned with ambition, certain that endless years lay before him to write, to lead, to shape a nation. Yet by the age of forty-seven, he lay dying upon the dueling ground, his great designs unfinished, his brilliance cut short. Did he not too wonder in his last moments, “How did it get so late so soon?” For the young believe they have eternity, but in truth, life moves swifter than even the keenest mind can calculate.

Yet we must not despair at the swiftness of time. For the brevity of life is what gives it power. A rose would not seem so beautiful if it bloomed forever; a sunset would not stir the soul if it lingered without end. The fleeting nature of days is what demands that we cherish them. Dr. Seuss’s gentle rhyme calls us to awaken, to see that afternoon is passing, that December approaches, and that if we do not act now, life will leave us unfulfilled. His words are not only a lament but a summons: to live with urgency, with joy, and with gratitude.

The ancients counseled the same. The Stoics declared, “Memento mori—remember you must die,” not to sadden men but to rouse them to action. To remember that time has flewn is to be spurred toward courage, toward love, toward kindness. The man who knows his days are few wastes them not on bitterness or idleness, but spends them like gold, wisely and with purpose. The passing of hours is beyond our control, but how we use them lies within our command.

Therefore, let us draw the lesson clearly: do not sleep through your life. Do not delay the word of kindness you mean to speak, nor postpone the dream you long to pursue. Night will come, whether you are ready or not. December will arrive, even if you are still planning for June. The only moment you truly possess is now—this breath, this step, this heartbeat. Guard it, use it, and fill it with meaning.

Practical actions follow from this wisdom: rise each day with intention, and ask yourself what one thing you can do that would make this day worthwhile. Keep company with those who lift your spirit, for wasted hours in hollow pursuits are hours never returned. Write the letter you have put off, forgive the one you have delayed forgiving, begin the work you have long postponed. These are the ways to steal back what the thief of time would otherwise take from you.

So let us carry Dr. Seuss’s playful yet piercing question as both warning and guide: “How did it get so late so soon?” If we live with awareness, if we honor the fleeting nature of our days, then we may answer, at life’s end, not with regret, but with peace: it did not come too soon, for I lived fully while it lasted.