Seldon L. Whitcomb

THE MOONLIGHT creeps across yon gilded roof,

And northward far of massive block on block

The spire of Grace is dim; the stubborn rock

Echoes beneath the roar of wheel and hoof

Along Broadway—a human warp whose woof

Is spun by hurrying crowds that bridgeward flock;

Some with glad faces, some who seem to mock,

Some sad, and some who coldly hold aloof.

Yet here is calm for which the self has sought!

When crushing grief and stormy rapture meet

And mingle here, as night subdues the day,

Be silent, till thy anxious soul has caught

The harmony wherein the incomplete,

Defiant, private note must pass away.