Unmoved, move hands shaped twain <br />Wound in metal optic nerves, <br />To wisdom, beauty, love and youth <br />As if all heaven condensed, allied, <br /> <br />With stealthy minutes creep <br />As eternal breath itself, alive <br />That owns not man's dominion <br />Yet he owns to it his passing years.<br /><br />yoonoos peerbocus<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/clock-17/
