‘I Only Mark the Hours That Shine’

Well, 'tis your fault, and not your virtue, 
     A sorry sort of thing to boast;
Poor stony-visaged malapert, you!
     The hours you discount are the most.

Sooth, you must have the smile of Phebus 
     Or you'll not pass the time of day 
With your best friend! dull king of Ghebers 
     Who worship only in his ray!

Small merit in your rigid finger
     The shining hours alone to mark, 
And then in sullen nescience linger
     Through night and storm and shadows dark.

Your narrow nature gives the measure
     Of little souls who ever ask
For cloudless skies and endless pleasure, 
     Or gloomily forego their task.

A stouter heart counts all for guerdon, 
     The night, the sunshine, and the rain, 
And finds new vigor in its burden, 
     In every loss a better gain.

Give me the rousing bell, up yonder,
     To peal, like noon's, the midnight hour, 
And, unabashed by storm and thunder,
     Ring signals from his rocking tower.

More need to ask, when glooms are denser, 
     How speeds the hours for weal or woe, 
And best they serve, whose ready answer
     Defies the darkness like a blow.

Poor parasite of time, your gnomon 
     May catch, and boast, his sunny smile, 
But never Saxon heart, or Roman,
     Will take his watchword from your style!