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Poetry: The Clock
The Clock There upon the wall it resides, From anyone’s glance it never hides, The clock is for all, A historian, a soothsayer, Examine the student, Buried in his work, "Oh that time were faster!" says he, school, to this youth, an eternity, His prayers soon to be answered, will prove not a favor, By the unforeseen cruelty of the working world’s labor, Yet he still shall hearken, the tick, tick, ticking, Of the clock, Consider also the couple, feverish in love, Awaiting the date, for union, blessed from above, "Will it never get here?" they cry, Impatience for matrimony so oft is seen, The day, yes, soon will arrive, Just as quickly however, their paths go awry, Their lawyers, now hearken, the tick, tick, ticking, Of the clock, For those few marriages, successful, Children then conceived, "When will he be born?" asks the mother, Her question consumes her, it, and no other, She soon will wish the date to be back, Consumed by labor’s agonies, relief seems to lack, And also she, will attend the tick, tick, ticking, Of the clock, Older ears, despite even deafness, Hide not from the clock’s count, They, alone, want to fear it, Wish, it was not, Why, should only the aged, realize a secret, Of the clocks hidden purpose, All along, pursued we are, by the tick, tick, ticking Of the clock. |
