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C.D. Warner, et al., comp.
The Library of the World’s Best Literature. An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.

Author Unknown

The Strasburg Clock

MANY and many a year ago—

To say how many I scarcely dare—

Three of us stood in Strasburg streets,

In the wide and open square,

Where, quaint and old and touched with gold

Of a summer morn, at stroke of noon

The tongue of the great Cathedral tolled,

And into the church with the crowd we strolled

To see their wonder, the famous Clock.

Well, my love, there are clocks a many,

As big as a house, as small as a penny;

And clocks there be with voices as queer

As any that torture human ear:

Clocks that grunt, and clocks that growl,

That wheeze like a pump, and hoot like an owl,

From the coffin shape with its brooding face

That stands on the stair (you know the place),

Saying, “Click, cluck,” like an ancient hen,

A-gathering the minutes home again.

To the kitchen knave with its wooden stutter,

Doing equal work with double splutter,

Yelping, “Click, clack,” with a vulgar jerk,

As much as to say, “Just see me work!”

But of all the clocks that tell Time’s bead-roll,

There are none like this in the old Cathedral;

Never a one so bids you stand

While it deals the minutes with even hand:

For clocks, like men, are better and worse,

And some you dote on, and some you curse;

And clock and man may have such a way

Of telling the truth that you can’t say nay.

So in we went and stood in the crowd

To hear the old clock as it crooned aloud

With sound and symbol, the only tongue

The maker taught it while yet ’twas young.

And we saw St. Peter clasp his hands,

And the cock crow hoarsely to all the lands,

And the twelve Apostles come and go,

And the solemn Christ pass sadly and slow;

And strange that iron-legged procession,

And odd to us the whole impression,

As the crowd beneath in silence pressing,

Bent to that cold mechanic blessing.

But I alone thought far in my soul

What a touch of genius was in the whole:

And felt how graceful had been the thought

Which for the signs of the months had sought,

Sweetest of symbols, Christ’s chosen train;

And much I pondered, if he whose brain

Had builded this clock with labor and pain

Did only think, Twelve months there are,

And the Bible twelve will fit to a hair;

Or did he say, with a heart in tune,

Well-beloved John is the sign of June,

And changeful Peter hath April hours,

And Paul the stately, October bowers,

And sweet, or faithful, or bold, or strong,

Unto each one shall a month belong.

But beside the thought that under it lurks,

Pray, do you think clocks are saved by their works?