To The Clock

Here's to the Clock!
Whose hands, we pray heaven,
When we come home at three,
Have stopped at eleven!

Oliver Herford

Oliver Herford was born in England on December 2, 1860. He was a British-born American writer, artist, and illustrator, often referred to as 'The American Oscar Wilde' for his sharp wit and humorous works. Herford authored and illustrated many books for children and adults, contributing to magazines such as "The Criterion", "Life", and "Punch". He died on July 5, 1935, in France.

Oliver Herford

The Ph[oe]nix

Oliver Herford, Simple Poetry

The Puncture

Oliver Herford, Simple Poetry

Shakespeare

Oliver Herford, Simple Poetry

Peter Dunne

Oliver Herford, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

The Little Clock.

Kind friend, you do not know how much
    I prize this time-ly treasure,
So dainty, diligent, and such
    A constant source of pleasure.

The man of brains who could invent
    So true a chrono-meter
Has set a charming precedent,
    And made a good repeater.

It speaks with clear, commanding clicks,
    Suggestive of the donor;
And 'tends to business - never sick
    A bit more than the owner.

It goes when I do; when I stop
    (As by the dial showing)
It never lets a second drop,
    But simply keeps on going.

It tells me when I am to eat,
    Which isn't necessary;
When food with me is obsolete,
    I'll be a reliquary.

It tells me early when to rise,
    And bother with dejeuner;
To sally fo...

Hattie Howard

The Clock-Winder

It is dark as a cave,
Or a vault in the nave
When the iron door
Is closed, and the floor
Of the church relaid
With trowel and spade.

But the parish-clerk
Cares not for the dark
As he winds in the tower
At a regular hour
The rheumatic clock,
Whose dilatory knock
You can hear when praying
At the day's decaying,
Or at any lone while
From a pew in the aisle.

Up, up from the ground
Around and around
In the turret stair
He clambers, to where
The wheelwork is,
With its tick, click, whizz,
Reposefully measuring
Each day to its end
That mortal men spend
In sorrowing and pleasuring
Nightly thus does he climb
To the trackway of Time.

Him I followed one night
To this place without light,

Thomas Hardy

The Clock Of The Universe

    A clock aeonian, steady and tall,
With its back to creation's flaming wall,
Stands at the foot of a dim, wide stair.
Swing, swang, its pendulum goes,
Swing--swang--here--there!
Its tick and its tack like the sledge-hammer blows
Of Tubal Cain, the mighty man!
But they strike on the anvil of never an ear,
On the heart of man and woman they fall,
With an echo of blessing, an echo of ban;
For each tick is a hope, each tack is a fear,
Each tick is a Where, each tack a Not here,
Each tick is a kiss, each tack is a blow,
Each tick says Why, each tack I don't know.
Swing, swang, the pendulum!
Tick and tack, and go and come,
With a haunting, far-off, dreamy hum,
With a tick, tack, loud and dumb,
Swings the pendulu...

George MacDonald

To Her Shadow

Here's to her shadow!
May it mark the hours
Upon the sundial of her life--in flowers!

Oliver Herford

Four By The Clock.

"NAHANT, September 8, 1880,
Four o'clock in the morning."

Four by the clock! and yet not day;
But the great world rolls and wheels away,
With its cities on land, and its ships at sea,
Into the dawn that is to be!

Only the lamp in the anchored bark
Sends its glimmer across the dark,
And the heavy breathing of the sea
Is the only sound that comes to me.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

The Fairy Clock

Silver clock! O silver clock! tell to me the time o' day!
Is there yet a little hour left for us to work and play?
Tell me when the sun will set - tiny globe of silver-grey.

It has been so glad a world since the coming of the morn,
Oft I wondered when I met any souls who seemed forlorn -
And I scarce gave heed to those who were old or travel worn.

Mayhap I have loved too well the merry fleeting things;
Run too lightly with the wind - chased too many shining wings;
Thought too seldom of the night, and the silence that it brings.

Well I fear me I have been but an idler in the sun -
All unfinished are the tasks long and long ago begun -
In the dark perchance they weep, who have left their work undone.

And I know each black-frocked friar preacheth sermons that...

Virna Sheard