How my ears are vexed by the ticking clock;

That two-faced smiling toll a wind-up trick.

Face the first which all human deeds does mock,

Face the second: heavenly hope turned sick.

 

Once around His hands offer every gift;

Again around His hands demand the cost:

For eager Spring that seed to fruit does lift,

Winter plucks blossoms with fingers of frost.

 

And His stiffest drink He serves to sip

From a cup ever filling to the top,

As an ejected tire’s rounding trip,

Till I am stomach sick and beg it stop.

 

Yet I confess on still, dark nights I fear

The climax of the clocks will someday near.

 

Joseph Byron Bennett

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