When I was a little lad, my old grandfather said That none should wind the clock but he, and so at time for bed He'd fumble for the curious key kept high upon the shelf And set aside that little task entirely for himself.
In time, Grandfather passed away and so that duty fell Unto my father who performed the weekly custom well. He held that clocks were not to be by careless persons wound And he alone should turn the key or move the hands around.
I envied him that little task and wished that I might be The one entrusted with the turning of the key. But year by year the clock was his exclusive bit of care Until the day the angels came and smoothed his silver hair.
Today the task is mine to do, like those who've gone before. I am a jealous guardian of that round and glassy door. And until, at my chamber, door God's messenger shall knock, To me alone shall be reserved the right to wind the clock.