They had saved Him up within themselves,
Wanting Him to be in place and govern,
Even settled their cathedrals' hovering
Mass and heft on Him like granite shelves,
Barring his ascension. He was free
Just to "tell" like clock-hands and revolved
Through his numbers' rank infinity
As a pointer, and--thus their resolve--
Furnish signals for their chores and times.
Of a sudden, though, His wheels were spinning,
And the people of the awestruck town
Fearfully imagining His dinning,
Kept him running with suspended chimes
And fled headlong from His dial's frown.
- Rilke (translated by Walter Arndt)