Long they watch it playing in its place,
half-aware; at moments it’s emerging
from its profile, that round, real face,
clear and whole as some full hour upsurging
into sound and striking to an end.
They, though, fail to count the strokes it’s giving,
dulled with toil and indolent with living;
yet it’s bearing, could they comprehend,
even now, with effort never-ending,
all things, while, as in some wearisome
waiting-room, it sits by them, intending
just to wait until its time has come.