Classic Poem

That old clock's face yet keeps its place,
And wheels its hands around,
His bob still swings, his bell still rings,
As when I heard his sound
On leaving home, so long ago,
And left him ticking, ticking slow.

No rust yet clogs its catching cogs
To keep its wheels all still,
No blow e'er fell to crack his bell
That hourly ringles shrill.
I wish my life were guided on
As true as that old clock has gone.

Who now may wind his chain, untwin'd
In running out his hours,
Or make a gloss to shine across
His door, with golden flow'rs,
Since he has sounded out the last
Still hours our dear good mother pass'd?