everything we do, confiding things to the Day about us and about Eternity from which they have come. I cannot tell you what they say about you—you will know that, if you try to think, and especially if you stand close to a great clock or hear it boom out in the night. And I cannot tell you what they say about Eternity. But I think that this may be one of the songs that they sing:—
SONG OF THE MINUTES
We are a garland for men,
We are flung from the first gate of Time,
From the touch that opened the minds of men
Down to the breath of this rhyme.
We are the measure of things,
The rule of their sweep and stir,
But whenever a little girl pipes and sings,
We will keep time for her.
We are a touching of hands
From those in the murk of the earth,
Through all who have garnered life in their
hands
And wrought it from death unto birth.
