Trees, and Other Poems

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.