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 —