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.