What is tliis witbin my being Ticklng, tfckmg evennore, Liko the sound of fairy footfalls, Dropping on some distant shore t I can it in the midnight, Ilear t in the busy day, He ir its clear and meaiured numbers AYheresoe'er I chance to stray. On tliat mystic little dial There is clear and telling lines, Over v.-hich the sunlight glitters, And the passing hour defines, Quicker, quicker it is beatins, Swifter move those mystio hands, With their lean and spectral flngers l'uintiiiy to the shadowy lands. But the day of life is waniDg, Soon its shaduws will decline, Aud witllin niy spirits dwelling Cease the little mystic chime. Dust o'er all its motions ialling, Gathërs drearer day by day, Voices froni the future calling, Beem to beckon me away. Tiirillins tales tliis clock is telling, As tlie days and hours recele, Noting evcry thought and action, Yet we give it little heed: Soraetimes we may hear it ringing, Loud and clear the passing hour, Sending through the soul's deep chamber ïones of dee] niysterious power, Yet we fold our arnis and listen To a thunsand stranger sounds, Where the Lii'e-Clock all unheeded, Plods its tireless, solenin rounds.