Ridgely Torrance

Morning

THE JEWEL-BLUE electric flowers

Are cold upon their iron trees.

Upraised, the deadly harp of rails

Whines for its interval of ease.

The stones keep all their daily speech

Buried, but can no more forget

Than would a water-vacant beach

The hour when it was wet.

A whitened few wane out like moons,

Ghastly, from some torn edge of shade;

A drowning one, a reeling one,

And one still loitering after trade.

On high the candour of the clock

Portions the dark with solemn sound.

The burden of the bitten rock

Moans up from underground.

Far down the streets a shutting door

Echoes the yesterday that fled

Among the days that should have been,

Which people cities of the dead.

The banners of the steam unfold

Upon the towers to meet the day;

The lights go out in red and gold,

But Time goes out in grey.