Shorn

Does the grandfather clock’s pendulum
Still, with measured swing
A sense of order bring
To that country place
Where a mantion’s stately grace,
Brought peace,
For a while at least.

I would resile
This urban life
Of strife,
And solace take
In the birds who awake
At morn.

We are from tradition torn,
And shorn
Of a sense of the past
Wander in a vast
Whirlpool
Where the sleepless screen does rule
And institutions are thrown away
For they belong to yesterday.