Her eyes I see across the room,
Coquettish gaze locked down upon me,
She’s odd; her swaying smiles loom:
Oh, she’s a lady: sense can’t wrong me!
Her lips are twitching here and there,
All through the fog and boring air
Clasping, clenching; the game is set:
She’s won and snared me in her net.
And from afar, as in a dream,
Machines, not dames drone on and on
Still weaving on their sickest song
In which dark monsters seem to teem…
Enough, dear miss, you’re not but talk!
Enough: I’m flirting with the clock!

My mistress Time flies arrow fair,
Gazelling through my thoughts and dreams.
It moves along without a care
For worlds ripping at their seams.
Historians watch her shed off,
Exfoliate, and sigh, and scoff
As heroes old bask in her fame;
Oh, she’s a lovely little dame.
And still the clock spins off and on,
My hands grow grey; I can do naught:
I can’t stop spinning: thought is taut!
“Slow down, slow down!” I scream, forgone…
The clock can’t stop, and so I climb:
May I not waste more time on time!