Hamilton Fish Armstrong, ed. The Book of New York Verse. 1917.
Fifth AvenueSpring AfternoonLouis Untermeyer
T
With whispers, strange fervors and April—
There’s a smell in the air as if meadows
Were under our feet.
But she pours out her heart to the city,
As one woman might to another
Who meet after years …
The streets are a riot of blossoms.
What garden could boast of such flowers—
Not Eden itself.
Shame the grey town and its squalor—
Windows are naming with jonquils;
Fires of gold!
Peer at the crowd, like the faces
Of solemnly mischievous children
Going to bed …
Frail and phantastically fashioned,
Pass like a race of immortals,
Too radiant for earth.
They sing themselves into the sunshine—
Every girl is a lyric,
An urge and a lure.
The Spring and its impulse goes through me—
Breezes and flowers and people
Sing in my blood …
And under it all, oh belovèd,
Out of the song and the sunshine,
Rises your face!