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.
More than a poem, I think of this beautifully rhythmic and metrical Sara Teasdale poem like a song. And just like a song, its directness is its strength. Through her use of conventional rhyme and rhythm, the poem falls off the tongue easily. The repetitions of various "o'clock[s]" build anticipation for eight o'clock, when as she tells us, her lover comes. The anticipation is such that she can't help but watch the clock, hoping for it to bring her lover with each hand's stroke.
There isn't much to say here, but I like the way Teasdale sets up the schedule of her afternoon and night to us in the first stanza. It helps cement, to me, at least, our relationship with time, and touches very accurately on how things we desire and anticipate always seem to take a little longer to arrive. It's a lovely little song of a poem, and I hope you enjoy it, and think fondly of happy times that you couldn't wait to arrive.