  The swishing of passing motors, The rumbling of city cars, The click and the clack of horses That sharply accent the bars, The boom of important freighters, The whiz of the swifter train Which slows, with a hushing whisper To toot of canal refrain. And, striking its note of rawness, The hoot of the motor horn Is shrieking erratic discord, To show its true Georgian scorn Of soothing Victorian rhythm; As sweetly and softly chimes The old English clock in hallway. Its tick and its tick make rhymes. And I sink into slumber Counting slowly their number, Tick tick—tick tick—tick— |
|
