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by Henry C. Work
My grandfather's clock was too large for the shelf, so it stood ninety years on the floor; It was taller by half than the old man himself, though it weighed not a pennyweight more. It was bought on the morn of the day that he was born, and was always his treasure and pride; But it stopp'd short- never to go again- when the old man died.
Ninety years, without slumbering (tick, tick, tick, tick), His life seconds numbering (tick, tick, tick, tick), It stopp'd short- never to go again- when the old man died.
In watching its pendulum swing to and fro, Many hours had he spent while a boy; And in childhood and manhood the clock seemed to know and to share both his grief and his joy. For it struck twenty-four when he entered the door, with a blooming and beautiful bride; But it stopp'd short- never to go again- when the old man died.
My grandfather said that of those he could hire, not a servant so faithful he found; For it wasted no time and had but one desire- at the close of each week to be wound. And it kept in its place- not a frown upon its face, and its hands never hung by its side; But it stopp'd short- never to go again- when the old man died.
It rang an alarm in the dead of the night- An alarm that for years had been dumb; And we knew his spirit was planning for flight- That the hour of departure had come. Still the clock kept the time, with a soft and muffled chime, as we silently stood by his side; But it stopp'd short- never to go again- when the old man died.
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