When Dawn strides out to wake a dewy farm <br />Across green fields and yellow hills of hay <br />The little twittering birds laugh in his way <br />And poise triumphant on his shining arm. <br />He bears a sword of flame but not to harm <br />The wakened life that feels his quickening sway <br />And barnyard voices shrilling 'It is day!' <br />Take by his grace a new and alien charm. <br /> <br />But in the city, like a wounded thing <br />That limps to cover from the angry chase, <br />He steals down streets where sickly arc-lights sing, <br />And wanly mock his young and shameful face; <br />And tiny gongs with cruel fervor ring <br />In many a high and dreary sleeping place.<br /><br />Alfred Joyce Kilmer<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/alarm-clocks-3/
