In masks outrageous and austere, The years go by in single file;

Hear the voice of Elinor Wylie, poet of grace and sorrow, who spoke these lines: “In masks outrageous and austere, the years go by in single file; but none has merited my fear, and none has quite escaped my smile.” Her words, clothed in verse, are more than poetry—they are a meditation on time itself, and on the soul’s power to meet the procession of days with both defiance and gentleness. For life comes to us disguised, sometimes in splendor, sometimes in severity, but always moving forward, one year after another, unrelenting.

The masks she names are the guises of fate: moments of joy that dazzle us, hardships that loom in austerity, seasons of plenty and of want. Each year hides its face until we live it, and then it passes, replaced by another, equally veiled. Yet Wylie proclaims her victory: though the years come clothed in grandeur or gloom, none has conquered her. None has drawn from her the bitter surrender of fear. Instead, she meets them all with the quiet weapon of the smile, a sign that though time presses on, the soul remains unconquered.

The ancients, too, spoke of this parade of years. The Stoics called time a river, carrying all before it, while the Hebrews sang in the Psalms that man’s days are but a shadow. Yet the wise knew that how one greets the flow of time is the measure of the spirit. Marcus Aurelius, emperor and philosopher, endured war, betrayal, and plague, yet wrote that each morning one should rise with gratitude, knowing the day’s trials cannot rob the soul unless it consents. Like Wylie, he refused fear; like Wylie, he sought to meet even hardship with calm.

History gives us another mirror in Nelson Mandela. For twenty-seven years, he was bound in prison, stripped of freedom, cut off from the world. Those years came in harsh masks, austere and merciless. Yet Mandela did not surrender to despair. He endured without fear, and when at last he emerged, he did so with a smile that lit the hearts of millions. His life shows us what Wylie’s verse declares—that even the sternest years cannot claim victory over a soul that meets them with courage and grace.

The beauty of Wylie’s lines also lies in the tension between defiance and gentleness. She does not say she has laughed at the years, nor mocked them. Instead, she has met them with a smile—a gesture of dignity, of patience, of quiet triumph. It is neither the roar of conquest nor the wail of defeat, but the calm assertion of inner strength. For the one who smiles at time declares: “You may take my days, but you shall not take my spirit.”

The teaching is profound: life will bring its disguises, its masks, sometimes beautiful, sometimes dreadful. You cannot control their coming, nor hasten their passing. But you can decide how you will meet them. To live in fear is to let time conquer twice—once by its passing, and again by its shadow. To live with a smile is to claim victory, to show that the heart can turn even hardship into wisdom.

Therefore, beloved, make this your practice: when the years march forward, do not tremble at their coming. Meet each one as a traveler at your gate, clothed in strange attire, but welcomed without dread. If the year brings sorrow, endure it with courage; if it brings joy, cherish it with gratitude. But in all things, let your face bear the mark of the smile—for this is the soul’s eternal answer to time. And when your journey is done, it will be said of you as Wylie said of herself: that no year has conquered your heart, and none has escaped the gift of your enduring smile.