Do not then such wisdom spurn.
Like the bee, go, hourly strive,
Lest you find an empty hive.
I fly, I walk, I run, I crawl,
Yet own no wings or legs at all.
My dial is a picture rare,
On which the lives of all appear.
A clock or bell a lie may tell,
I never, if the sun shines well.
I’m fast to some,