Time is a heavy legend to be told By this slight clock, shapely and full of guile, With brilliants at its throat, the sun in gold, Louis' own seal, above its painted smile. Some clocks have souls; they grow into a wall, Become a part of lives they tick away; This is a toy, perfect, sufficient all Unto itself -- a butterfly at bay. Hours and years? They change but do not pass! In this light world of gold and ormolu Time is one splendid moment under glass! Mad little clock, so gay it never knew Blood on the hours, a lifted pike -- a head -- And hot throats roaring that the King is dead! |