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...MORNING, NOON AND NIGHT by JAMES WELDON JOHNSON MIDDLE-AGED; A STUDY IN EMOTION by EZRA POUND A POET'S WELCOME TO HIS LOVE-BEGOTTEN DAUGHTER by ROBERT BURNS THE LIVING DEAD by RALPH CHAPLIN PROGRESSIVE HEALTH by CARL DENNIS POCAHONTAS by GEORGE POPE MORRIS ADDRESS TO THE OCEAN by BRYAN WALLER PROCTER |