The nickeled lamp threw a wide yellow disk On the red tablecloth with the tasseled fringes. Jack Ellyat put his book down with a slight Impatient gesture. There was mother, knitting The same grey end of scarf while Father read The same unaltered paper through the same Old-fashioned spectacles with the worn bows. Jane with one apple-cheek and one enshadowed, Soundlessly conjugated Latin verbs, “Amo, amas, amat,” through sober lips, “Amamus, amatis, amant,” and still no sound. He glanced at the clock. On top of it was Phaëton Driving bronze, snarling horses down the sharp, Quicksilver, void, careening gulfs of air Until they smashed upon a black-marble sea. The round spiked trophy of the brazen sun Weighed down his chariot with its heavy load Of ponderous fire. To be like Phaëton And drive the trophy-sun! But he and his horses Were frozen in their attitude of snarling, Frozen forever to the tick of a clock.