Classic Poem

The slowly-moving fingers minutes find,
And hours and days, and e'en the lengthening years;
As much before them still as is behind,
No want their circling movement ever fears.
How different Man! By sudden impulse driven,
Now in the distant past he seeks for rest;
Now in the far-off future is his heaven;
“He never is, but always to be blest.”
His morn is with his noon, his noon with night,
His hand can never point to one true hour;
But marks one past, or future in its flight,
For o'er the present he has lost all power;
Unlike the clock, whose ready tongue can all
The hours, and days of Time find voice to call.