Alarm Clocks

When Dawn strides out to wake a dewy farm

Across green fields and yellow hills of hay

The little twittering birds laugh in his way

And poise triumphant on his shining arm.

He bears a sword of flame but not to harm

The wakened life that feels his quickening sway

And barnyard voices shrilling “It is day!”

Take by his grace a new and alien charm.

But in the city, like a wounded thing

That limps to cover from the angry chase,

He steals down streets where sickly arc-lights sing,

And wanly mock his young and shameful face;

And tiny gongs with cruel fervor ring

In many a high and dreary sleeping place.