The hour of justice does not strike
On the dials of this world.
[Fr., L'heure de la read more

The hour of justice does not strike
On the dials of this world.
[Fr., L'heure de la justice ne sonne pas
Aux cadrans de ce monde.]
- Maurice Maeterlinck, Measure of the Hours,

Give God thy heart, thy service, and thy gold; The day wears on,
and time is waxing old.
read more

Give God thy heart, thy service, and thy gold; The day wears on,
and time is waxing old.
- Unattributed Author,

The Natural Clock-work by the might One
Wound up at first, and ever since have gone.

The Natural Clock-work by the might One
Wound up at first, and ever since have gone.

I count only the hours that are serene.
[Lat., Horas non numero nisi serenas.]

I count only the hours that are serene.
[Lat., Horas non numero nisi serenas.]

Hours fly,
Flowers die.
New days,
New ways,
Pass by.
read more

Hours fly,
Flowers die.
New days,
New ways,
Pass by.
Love stays.

True as the needle to the pole,
Or as the dial to the sun.

True as the needle to the pole,
Or as the dial to the sun.

I mark my hours by shadow;
Mayest thou mark thine
By sunshine.

I mark my hours by shadow;
Mayest thou mark thine
By sunshine.

Amende to-day and slack not,
Deythe cometh and warneth not,
Tyme passeth and speketh not.

Amende to-day and slack not,
Deythe cometh and warneth not,
Tyme passeth and speketh not.

O God! methinks it were a happy life
To be no better than a homely swain;
To read more

O God! methinks it were a happy life
To be no better than a homely swain;
To sit upon a hill, as I do now,
To carve out dials, quaintly, point by point,
Thereby to see the minutes, how they run--
How many makes the hour full complete,
How many hours brings about the day,
How many days will finish up the year,
How many years a mortal man may live;
When this is known, then to divide the times--
So many hours must I tend my flock,
So many hours must I take my rest,
So many hours must I contemplate,
So many hours must I sport myself;
So many days my ewes have been with young,
So many weeks ere the poor fools will ean,
So many months ere I shall shear the fleece.
So minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, and years,
Passed over to the end they were created,
Would bring white hairs unto a quiet grave.
Ah, what a life were this!