VAGRANT VERSE
TICK-TOCK. What’s this of Time—his scythe, his glass, his wings; That unperturbed flight that knows no stay, Though to what distant goal no man can say; That gleaming blade that gathers, as it swings, So many summers and so many springs; That glass which tells one fortune day by day— That every grain must pass death’s narrow way Into the limbo of forgotten things:
How can it be? I have him fast in chains, Cooped in a narrow inch or two of gold: A djinn expert in the horologies, Tugging at levers, regulating strains; I listen in the night, and there he is, Toiling like Vulcan at his forge of old. —Robert Bell, in the London Observer.
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https://paperspast.natlib.govt.nz/newspapers/ST19331230.2.28
Bibliographic details
Southland Times, Issue 22210, 30 December 1933, Page 4
Word Count
119VAGRANT VERSE Southland Times, Issue 22210, 30 December 1933, Page 4
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