Poems (Hoffman)/The Voice of the Clock
THE VOICE OF THE CLOCK
"Tick, tick, tick," for many a long, long yearThe old clock has welcomed the birth of the hoursAnd mourned when their end drew near,And still it sings its changeless tune, the same note o'er and o'erBut its language is changed for it tells me to-dayThat I am a child no more,And the message is not an unwelcome oneFor the real race is only begunAnd yet the old clock's settled decreeWakes the solemn voices of MemoryAnd a sober coloring dims the lightAs a rainbow of childhood fades from sight.Where has it gone and when did it go?The glimmering tints in that transient bowHave melted away in some dreamland seaBut its image still lives in memoryAnd comes and comes and comes againIn shapes of pleasure and shapes of pain;For childhood is not all gladness and joyBut purest gold mixed with base alloy,And children's troubles to them are as realAs the greatest trials their elders feel.
"Tick, tick, tick," hark! the children's voices floatAnd intrude on that well known note,Out in the sunshine they laugh and leapWhile the old clock and I our vigil keepO'er the old-time dreamings cold and dead,O'er the joys and sorrows of moments fled,O'er thoughts of forgotten Summer-times,O'er Winters that came with their Christmas chimes,O'er friends and farewells, o'er smiles and tearsAnd the many phases of by-gone years; They are gone but the future shines brightly yetTo illumine my path and I will not letThe regret for my loss undervalue my gainFor well I know though Youth's sun may waneThere is work in which old and young can engageAnd blessings alike for youth and old age.Childhood like a rippling brooklet speedsThrough a tangled meadow of flowers and weeds,Then swells to a deeper, broader tideAnd the creek rushes down the mountain sideAnd grows to a river broad and deepWhere the song of the creek and brooklet sleepSwallowed up in the voice of a mighty flood,As the full blown rose absorbs the bud,And gaining more depth and sublimity'Till lost in the ocean—eternity.
"Tick, tick, tick," my old, old friend's voice is still clearThough for many, many a yearThat same solemn voice has warned the gayThat the moments were swiftly gliding away,Has tolled the refrain of the funeral knell,Has echoed the sound of the marriage bell,Has chanted from dawn 'till the shadows creepAnd kept faithful watch when the house was asleep."Tick, tick, tick, be quick, be quick, be quickWhat is to be done must be done in hasteThere is not a single moment to wasteFor though time may seem to drag slowly onBefore you will know it, time will be goneAnd then comes eternity."Thus the old clock seems to speak to meAnd then in a deeper tone repeats,"How swiftly the little brooklet fleetsChildhood, sweet childhood can come no moreLook for the flowers on the river's shore."But a new thought thrills me, the old clock's voice.