The mammoth tank of day
Rides up into the gray
Over the rolling hills,
Shooting shadows one by one;
One by one, then all at once,
Till night, scattering, retreats.
The bulet-rays melt into light,
Transparent suits for things' delight,
Down from the rolling hills.
The mammoth tank rides high
Way on up blue avenue sky,
Guns a-blazing that never cease.
Night's spies hide behind trees
And poles and bending knees,
Afraid to show themselves.
Then bored somewhat, at last,
With his over-easy task,
The tank turns down the sky.
The shadows gather closer in
To plot the growing town to win
Before another tank rolls by.
But "Hey!" they say, "What's this?
These globes, this neon bliss?
Is there no end to day?"
Bright sentries stand on every street,
There's shining paths for honest feet,
That men may come and go.
There's circles, dots, and squares of light,
And streaks and streams and gleams of light,
And blinking, winking, thinking light;
Whole buildings beam and glow!
The tank is gone, but man comes on,
Dusting shades with endless dawn.
Night bites the bullet, ho!