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| MANY and many a year ago,— | |
| To say how many I scarcely dare,— | |
| Three of us stood in Strasburg streets, | |
| In the wide and open square, | |
| Where, quaint and old, and touched with the gold | 5 |
| Of a summer morn, at stroke of noon | |
| The tongue of the great Cathedral tolled, | |
| And into the church with the crowd we strolled | |
| To see their wonder, the famous Clock. | |
| Well, my love, there are clocks a many, | 10 |
| As big as a house, as small as a penny; | |
| And clocks there be with voices as queer | |
| As any that torture human ear,— | |
| Clocks that grunt, and clocks that growl, | |
| That wheeze like a pump, and hoot like an owl, | 15 |
| From the coffin shape with its brooding face | |
| That stands on the stair (you know the place), | |
| Saying, “Click, cluck,” like an ancient hen, | |
| A-gathering the minutes home again, | |
| To the kitchen knave with its wooden stutter, | 20 |
| Doing equal work with double splutter, | |
| Yelping, “Click, clack,” with vulgar jerk, | |
| As much as to say, “Just see me work!” | |
| But of all the clocks that tell Time’s bead-roll. | |
| There are none like this in the old Cathedral; | 25 |
| Never a one so bids you stand | |
| While it deals the minutes with even hand: | |
| For clocks, like men, are better and worse, | |
| And some you dote on, and some you curse; | |
| And clock and man may have such a way | 30 |
| Of telling the truth that you can’t say nay. | |
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| So in we went and stood in the crowd | |
| To hear the old clock as it crooned aloud, | |
| With sound and symbol, the only tongue | |
| The maker taught it while yet ’t was young. | 35 |
| And we saw Saint Peter clasp his hands, | |
| And the cock crow hoarsely to all the lands, | |
| And the Twelve Apostles come and go, | |
| And the solemn Christ pass sadly and slow; | |
| And strange that iron-legged procession, | 40 |
| And odd to us the whole impression, | |
| As the crowd beneath, in silence pressing, | |
| Bent to that cold mechanic blessing. | |
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| But I alone thought far in my soul | |
| What a touch of genius was in the whole, | 45 |
| And felt how graceful had been the thought | |
| Which for the signs of the months had sought, | |
| Sweetest of symbols, Christ’s chosen train; | |
| And much I pondered, if he whose brain | |
| Had builded this clock with labor and pain | 50 |
| Did only think, twelve months there are, | |
| And the Bible twelve will fit to a hair; | |
| Or did he say, with a heart in tune, | |
| Well-loved John is the sigh of June, | |
| And changeful Peter hath April hours, | 55 |
| And Paul the stately, October bowers, | |
| And sweet or faithful or bold or strong, | |
| Unto each one shall a month belong. | |
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| But beside the thought that under it lurks, | |
| Pray, do you think clocks are saved by their works? | 60 |
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