Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807–1882)

SLOWLY the hour-hand of the clock moves round;

So slowly that no human eye hath power

To see it move! Slowly in shine or shower

The painted ship above it, homeward bound,

Sails, but seems motionless, as if aground;

Yet both arrive at last; and in his tower

The slumberous watchman wakes and strikes the hour,

A mellow, measured, melancholy sound.

Midnight! the outpost of advancing day!

The frontier town and citadel of night!

The watershed of Time, from which the streams

Of Yesterday and To-morrow take their way,

One to the land of promise and of light,

One to the land of darkness and of dreams!