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!