The little clock dings the night on the roof.
It hurries towerd the mystery of luck.
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I am a bit sleepy-headed... I hope that is why I cannot make heads nor tails of this work. It's like I'm an inch short- I think I'm onto it and I reach out and it slips away as if I never had a glimpse of its truth. I shall have to try again when my two brain cells are awake... But I don't feel too bad, I see that I have company with Tom below!
Unless I am simply unfamiliar with the word 'throught', there may be a typo in this poem.