The hour of justice does not strike
On the dials of this world.
[Fr., L'heure de la read more

The hour of justice does not strike
On the dials of this world.
[Fr., L'heure de la justice ne sonne pas
Aux cadrans de ce monde.]
- Maurice Maeterlinck, Measure of the Hours,

If o'er the dial glides a shade, redeem
The time for lo! it passes like a dream;
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If o'er the dial glides a shade, redeem
The time for lo! it passes like a dream;
But if 'tis all a blank, then mark the loss
Of hours unblest by shadows from the cross.

I mark my hours by shadow;
Mayest thou mark thine
By sunshine.

I mark my hours by shadow;
Mayest thou mark thine
By sunshine.

True as the dial to the sun,
Although it be not shin'd upon.

True as the dial to the sun,
Although it be not shin'd upon.

In the day, do the day's work.

In the day, do the day's work.

As the long hours do pass away,
So doth the life of man decay.

As the long hours do pass away,
So doth the life of man decay.

"Horas non numero nisi serenas."
There stands in the garden of old St. Mark
A sun dial read more

"Horas non numero nisi serenas."
There stands in the garden of old St. Mark
A sun dial quaint and gray.
It takes no heed of the hours which in dark
Pass o'er it day by day.
It has stood for ages amid the flowers
In that land of sky and song.
"I number none but the cloudless hours,"
Its motto the live day long.

I go away and come again each day,
But thou shalt go away and ne'er return.

I go away and come again each day,
But thou shalt go away and ne'er return.

O God! methinks it were a happy life
To be no better than a homely swain;
To read more

O God! methinks it were a happy life
To be no better than a homely swain;
To sit upon a hill, as I do now,
To carve out dials, quaintly, point by point,
Thereby to see the minutes, how they run--
How many makes the hour full complete,
How many hours brings about the day,
How many days will finish up the year,
How many years a mortal man may live;
When this is known, then to divide the times--
So many hours must I tend my flock,
So many hours must I take my rest,
So many hours must I contemplate,
So many hours must I sport myself;
So many days my ewes have been with young,
So many weeks ere the poor fools will ean,
So many months ere I shall shear the fleece.
So minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, and years,
Passed over to the end they were created,
Would bring white hairs unto a quiet grave.
Ah, what a life were this!