Hamilton Fish Armstrong, ed. The Book of New York Verse. 1917.
The Pines, Sixty-seventh StreetHarvey Maitland Watts
Central Park—Looking Southward
T
Lit by the winter sunset’s trailing gleam,
And the susurrus speaks of far-a-way,
Some mountain scarp, some hurrying woodland stream—
Yet roofed sierras crowd on every side,
And ceaseless flows this restless human tide.