Deliver me, with magic spell,
with gliding bow and ringing bell,
from this dark and dreary mood so fell.
The clock counts its minutes and its hours;
we obey its rhythmic, ordered powers
in the prisons of our shining towers.
The clock is but an artifice
from a tyrant’s workshop’s abyss.
Time was made for more than this.
Count not the hours, but the beat,
tap it with your dancing feet,
clap it, sing it, in the street.
A flute of bone was made before
the timecard and the clock kept score.
Our forbears knew what time was for.
Reposting this for William J. Donovan