Poem The Watch by W. H. Auden

The Watch" by W. H. Auden

The cold, impersonal voice
Of the metronome, marking time,
Is the pulse of the world, the choice
Between existence and the prime.

Yet, as the watch ticks on, the hand
Moves on the dial, the hour grows,
And what was once a distant land
Is now the present, close to us.

The watch ticks on, the seconds pass,
And minutes turn to hours, then
The hours to days, the days amass,
And we are older, wiser men.

The watch ticks on, the years go by,
And one by one we fall away,
But still the metronome will cry,
And time will never stop its sway.