The noble old horologist, his lens stuck in his eye, condescends to enter in upon his menial task. Small fame or fortune comes to him from what he daily does, yet through his humble trade he’s glimpsed the workings of the world. For on his bench he masterfully lays the stars that roam the sky and moves the sun ‘round which they turn and daily dance with glee. A microcosm in his hand: the cosmos in his grasp. For his delight the spheres will turn, and at his frown they cease. The balance of this world obeys the judgement of his hands. Tis his to mend and his to mar where e’re his pleasure lies. But gently he performs his work, with love he orders all, and with a gentle shake he brings his dying world new life.
“If you are on the wrong road, progress means doing an about-turn and walking back to the right road; and in that case the man who turns back soonest is the most progressive man.” -C.S. Lewis