Supper comes at five o'clock, At six, the evening star, My lover comes at eight o'clock-- But eight o'clock is far.
How could I bear my pain all day Unless I watched to see The clock-hands laboring to bring Eight o'clock to me.
The speaker counts the hours until a lover arrives. Supper at five and the evening star at six mark time passing, but eight still feels impossibly distant. The whole day is painful, and the only comfort is watching the clock hands creep forward, as if they are laboring to bring the lover closer.
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