Hortense Flexner

French Clock

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!