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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