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.
