Hark to the Herald in His Hour

Hark to the Herald in His Hour

Éterne Martres

To strike upon the bell of time
And cause toll the silver chime

And the clocks a'tick and a'tock
Is doubtlessly to make click the lock

To the door
Of Nevermore.

Sights and scenes all abound,
Immobile portraits make not a sound

In this so very breezeless a land
Of no song or joyous praise for the grand

Memories of long
Gone to the gong.

Seconds be not of what to hold fright,
Neither be minutes, nor hours in night

Of which beast and man alike hold
As unknown ─ dark, lone, and cold

Forest
At rest.

Tick, tick, tick, tick, tock, tock, tock, tock,
On goes that peeving, pesky, pecking clock

To its end, to ding and dong
Out its brass and silver song

To mock ─
That sick cyclic clock.