Slowly she walks to the balustrade, Idly notes how the blossoms fade In the sun's caress; then crosses where The shadow shelters a carven chair. Within its curve, supine she lies, And wearily closes her tired eyes. The minstrel beseeches his silver strings, And holding the lady spellbound, sings: -- Down the road to Avignon, The long, long road to Avignon, Across the bridge to Avignon, One morning in the spring. Clouds sail over the distant trees, Petals are shaken down by the breeze, They fall on the terrace tiles like snow; The sighing of waves sounds, far below. A humming-bird kisses the lips of a rose Then laden with honey and love he goes. The minstrel woos with his silver strings, And climbing up to the lady, sings: -- Down the road to Avignon, The long, long road to Avignon, Across the bridge to Avignon, One morning in the spring. Step by step, and he comes to her, Fearful lest she suddenly stir. Sunshine and silence, and each to each, The lute and his singing their only speech; He leans above her, her eyes unclose, The humming-bird enters another rose. The minstrel hushes his silver strings. Hark! The beating of humming-birds' wings! Down the road to Avignon, The long, long road to Avignon, Across the bridge to Avignon, One morning in the spring. New York at Night A near horizon whose sharp jags Cut brutally into a sky Of leaden heaviness, and crags Of houses lift their masonry Ugly and foul, and chimneys lie And snort, outlined against the gray Of lowhung cloud. I hear the sigh The goaded city gives, not day Nor night can ease her heart, her anguished labours stay. Below, straight streets, monotonous, From north and south, from east and west, Stretch glittering; and luminous Above, one tower tops the rest And holds aloft man's constant quest: Time! Joyless emblem of the greed Of millions, robber of the best Which earth can give, the vulgar creed Has seared upon the night its flaming ruthless screed. O Night! Whose soothing presence brings The quiet shining of the stars. O Night! Whose cloak of darkness clings So intimately close that scars Are hid from our own eyes. Beggars By day, our wealth is having night To burn our souls before altars Dim and tree-shadowed, where the light Is shed from a young moon, mysteriously bright.