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 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!