Twelve o'clock at Noon

The sound of noon floats o'er the village-pool,
Round the babe's cradle and the blind man's chair,
And far afield; each buffet on the air
Is whisper'd back by wandering hearts at school,
The sweetest sum they do! Our Time has got
A presence and a motion, and looks forth
On all, and speaks to all — misprized or not;
What earthly language has a holier worth?
And though my little watch reports to me
The measure of my life more tenderly
Than these great seconds, with their iron gear,
That serve the booming hours — I love to hear
That fair and open reckoning, night and day,
Which tells us boldly how we pass away!