The dark of the night,
Silent through and through,
Its chains hold tight,
The very lonesome few.

Till up peeks the light,
Majestic in its pow’r
Up through the night,
A gleaming, righteous tow’r.

The ink touches paper,
A line then is made,
A beautiful drawing,
The boy then displays.

The sculptor chips away,
With a hammer and an axe,
As the artist moulds his clay,
The sculpture cannot act.

The clockmaker toils,
From up on the hill,
While the carpenter watches,
Perfectly still.

Inside the model,
Pushed and whipped,
The people run frantic,
The clock ticks.

The carpenter watches,
Perfectly still,
He snaps his fingers,
The clock ticks.

The boy draws on paper,
The sculptor moulds with clay
What the hands
Do shape the time of day?

Eric Davenport