Verse > Anthologies > Hamilton Fish Armstrong, ed. > The Book of New York Verse
Hamilton Fish Armstrong, ed.  The Book of New York Verse.  1917.
Three O’Clock
By Ridgely Torrance

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        5
  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;        10
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        15
  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.        20
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.

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