From ‘The Boy’s Wonderhorn’
The moon it shines,
My darling whines;
The clock strikes twelve:–God cheer
The sick both far and near.
God knoweth all;
Mousy nibbles in the wall;
The clock strikes one:–like day,
Dreams o’er thy pillow play.
The matin-bell
Wakes the nun in convent cell;
The clock strikes two:–they go
To choir in a row.
The wind it blows,
The cock he crows;
The clock strikes three:–the wagoner
In his straw bed begins to stir.
The steed he paws the floor,
Creaks the stable door;
The clock strikes four:–’tis plain
The coachman sifts his grain.
The swallow’s laugh the still air shakes,
The sun awakes;
The clock strikes five:–the traveler must be gone,
He puts his stockings on.
The hen is clacking,
The ducks are quacking;
The clock strikes six:–awake, arise,
Thou lazy hag; come, ope thy eyes.
Quick to the baker’s run;
The rolls are done;
The clock strikes seven:–
‘Tis time the milk were in the oven.
Put in some butter, do,
And some fine sugar, too;
The clock strikes eight:–
Now bring my baby’s porridge straight.
(Clemens Maria Brentano)
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Based on Topics: God Poems, Dreams Poems, Running PoemsBased on Keywords: coachman, sifts, clacking, whines, creaks, nibbles, quacking, matin-bell, wagoner, wonderhorn