The Alarm Clock.

With a clatter and a jangle,
    And a wrangle and a screech,
How the old alarm clock wheezes
    As it sneezes out of reach!
How you groan and yawn and stretch
    In the chilly morning air,
As you pull the blankets tight,
    With your head clear out of sight--
How you swear!

Edwin C. Ranck

Edwin C. Ranck was an American lyricist noted for his work in the early 20th century. He was a prolific writer and his lyrics were often characterized by their humor and wit. One of his standout works is the poem 'The Optimist', which reflects his positive outlook on life. Beyond that, little is known about his personal life or career. He remains a somewhat obscure figure in literary history.

Edwin C. Ranck

The County Fair.

Edwin C. Ranck, Simple Poetry

A Wonderful Feat.

Edwin C. Ranck, Simple Poetry

O'Dowd Of The Jefferson Club.

Edwin C. Ranck, Simple Poetry

At The Telephone.

Edwin C. Ranck, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

Alarm Clocks

When Dawn strides out to wake a dewy farm
    Across green fields and yellow hills of hay
    The little twittering birds laugh in his way
And poise triumphant on his shining arm.
He bears a sword of flame but not to harm
    The wakened life that feels his quickening sway
    And barnyard voices shrilling "It is day!"
Take by his grace a new and alien charm.

But in the city, like a wounded thing
    That limps to cover from the angry chase,
He steals down streets where sickly arc-lights sing,
    And wanly mock his young and shameful face;
And tiny gongs with cruel fervor ring
    In many a high and dreary sleeping place.

Alfred Joyce Kilmer

The Old Clock

        All day low clouds and slanting rain
        Have swept the woods and dimmed the plain.
        Wet winds have swayed the birch and oak,
        And caught and swirled away the smoke,
        But, all day long, the wooden clock
            Went on, Nic-noc, nic-noc.

        When deep at night I wake with fear,
        And shudder in the dark to hear
        The roaring storm's unguided strength,
        Peace steals into my heart at length,
        When, calm amid the shout and shock,
            I hear, Nic-noc, nic-noc.

        And all the winter long 't is I
        Who bless its sheer monotony--
        Its scorn of days, which cares no whit
        For time, except to measure it:
        The prosy, dozy, cosy clock,
            Ni...

John Charles McNeill

Time To Get Up

I.

There's nothing to do in the morning but stew,
Till it's time to get up and dress;
Till my nurse comes in to button and pin,
And dress me more or less:
Then it's time to get up, get up, you see,
And I am as happy as happy can be.

II.

For there is my drum a-calling me"Come!"
My clown a-shouting"Hooray!"
My dishes and table and little toy-stable
Just clattering"Come and play!"
And my little wood-soldiers, with foot to foot,
Seem ready to fire a toy-salute.

III.

And my spade and rake just seem to ache
For me to handle and use;
And the pile of sand it seems to expand
With joy when it feels my shoes.
But the gladdest of all, the maddest of all,
That leaps to my hand, is my little red ball.

IV.

Madison Julius Cawein

Retrospect: The Jests Of The Clock.

He had met hours of the clock he never guessed    before,
Dumb, dragging, mirthless hours confused with dreams and fear,
Bone-chilling, hungry hours when the gods sleep and snore,
Bequeathing earth and heaven to ghosts, and will not hear,
And will not hear man groan chained to the sodden ground,
Rotting alive; in feather beds they slumbered sound.

When noisome smells of day were sicklied by cold night,
When sentries froze and muttered; when beyond the wire
Blank shadows crawled and tumbled, shaking, tricking the sight,
When impotent hatred of Life stifled desire,
Then soared the sudden rocket, broke in blanching showers.
O lagging watch!    O dawn!    O hope-forsaken hours!

How often with numbed heart, stale lips, venting his rage
He swore he'd be a dolt, a trait...

Robert von Ranke Graves

A Nightmare

When you're lying awake with a dismal headache, and repose is taboo'd by anxiety,
I conceive you may use any language you choose to indulge in without impropriety;
For your brain is on fire - the bedclothes conspire of usual slumber to plunder you:
First your counterpane goes and uncovers your toes, and your sheet slips demurely from under you;
Then the blanketing tickles - you feel like mixed pickles, so terribly sharp is the pricking,
And you're hot, and you're cross, and you tumble and toss till there's nothing 'twixt you and the ticking.
Then the bedclothes all creep to the ground in a heap, and you pick 'em all up in a tangle;
Next your pillow resigns and politely declines to remain at its usual angle!
Well, you get some repose in the form of a doze, with hot eyeballs and head ever aching,

William Schwenck Gilbert

Saturday On The Farm.

'Tis Saturday morn and all is bright
    By nature's own endowing;
The sun is fiercely giving light,
    And only me--
        Plowing.

Across the river I hear the sound
    Of a boatman slowly rowing;
I have no time to fool around,
    Especially when I'm--
        Hoeing.

And when the dinner hour has come,
    And thoughts of work are fleeting,
I only hear the insects hum,
    Because I'm busy--
        Eating.

At night when all things are at rest,
    Safe in Old Morpheus' keeping,
No troubles do my mind infest,
    For I am soundly--
        Sleeping.

Edwin C. Ranck