01.01.2011, 12:45
TWELVE O'CLOCK AT NOON
The sound of noon floats o'er the village-pool,
Round the babe's cradle and the blind man's chair,
And far afield ; each buffet on the air
Is whisper'd back by wandering hearts at school,
The sweetest sum they do ! Our Time has got
A presence and a motion, and looks forth
On all, and speaks to all—misprized or not ;
What earthly language has a holier worth ?
And though my little watch reports to me
The measure of my life more tenderly
Than these great seconds, with their iron gear.
That serve the booming hours—I love to hear
That fair and open reckoning, night and day,
Which tells us boldly how we pass away
The sound of noon floats o'er the village-pool,
Round the babe's cradle and the blind man's chair,
And far afield ; each buffet on the air
Is whisper'd back by wandering hearts at school,
The sweetest sum they do ! Our Time has got
A presence and a motion, and looks forth
On all, and speaks to all—misprized or not ;
What earthly language has a holier worth ?
And though my little watch reports to me
The measure of my life more tenderly
Than these great seconds, with their iron gear.
That serve the booming hours—I love to hear
That fair and open reckoning, night and day,
Which tells us boldly how we pass away