Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). The New Poetry: An Anthology. 1917.
Sunday Evening in the Common
By John Hall Wheelock
L
The blossoms of the myriad stars are thick;
Over the huddled rows of stone and brick
A few sad wisps of empty smoke are curled
Like ghosts, languid and sick.
Fades, and the endless streets seem vague and dim;
There is no sound around the world’s rim,
Save in the distance a small band is droning
Some desolate old hymn.
When this same moment made all mysteries clear—
The infinite stars that brood above us here,
And the gray city in the soft June weather,
So tawdry and so dear!