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The Noble Old Horologist



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. 

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