Sunday Evening in the Common

LOOK—on the topmost branches of the world

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.

One breathless moment now the city’s moaning

Fades, and the endless streets seem vague and dim;

There is no sound around the whole world’s rim,

Save in the distance a small band is droning

Some desolate old hymn.

Van Wyck, how often have we been together

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!