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.