Alarm Clocks / Joyce Kilmer

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.