The clock that ticks upon the wall
And ornaments my entrance hall
Relates to me in simple ways
How swiftly pass the present days.
Two hands that click away their prime
Will meet at one appointed time
And greeting, pass that way once more
To reach for sky or stretch for floor.
Those hands may touch yet never clasp
They savor time but never grasp
One faithful hour to keep it safe
With seconds lost and minutes waif.
Thus I have learned, because I thought
That clocks have many pleasures brought
But only as they count the space
That waits between each precious place
Wherein resides a loving touch
That dwindles fast and matters much.
Claire V. Bogdanos 