The old town clock has struck eleven And as its echo dies, The traffic stops, and business halts, As countless prayers arise. A window-cleaner with hand upraised Seems to have turned to stone, And each recalls a different face And prays for one alone. The little children lightly think Of days they never knew, While I, with heart that still can break Murmur the name of you. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SONG OF THE MOON by CLAUDE MCKAY HOMAGE TO SEXTUS PROPERTIUS: 2 by EZRA POUND THE WEARY BLUES by JAMES LANGSTON HUGHES VILLANELLE: AU RETOUR DU PRINTEMPS by PHILIP SCHUYLER ALLEN A CHARACTER by ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD EVENING SOLACE by CHARLOTTE BRONTE |