How often have I trod it! Each brick and stone I know! Each little rise and hollow Though hidden under snow. And looking from my window I almost think to see A childish figure climbing— The little shade of Me. But as I watch her, smiling— The child who once was I— My Fancy climbs the little hill And merges in the sky. CITY SMOKE Oh, the smoke of the city! Pouring in columns black and thick; Swooping, a nightmare bird of prey, From a hideous eyrie of iron and brick, Obscuring the day; Sinister, greasy, noisome, vile, Spoiling the delicate, fouling the pure, Creeping like sorrowful sin or guile Through tiniest cranny and lock secure. The rosiest chamber reeks with its breath, And the dens already besmirched with death. It broods impartial, sullying all, Palace, tenement, hovel and hall; Beauty’s ruin and Nature’s ban, Price of the fierce, packed struggle of man. Grim smoke hovering without pity, Over the city. Oh, the smoke of the city! Rising and rolling a magical stream, Spreading and wavering higher and higher; Bright with the opaline colors of dream, A torrent of beauty, a cloud of desire. Delicate gossamer rags float free, Drifting into eternity, Washed with radiance, purged and clean, All-escaping, ethereal, new; Vision of poets sublime, serene, Etching the blue; Life transfigured by hope again, Prize of the dear, near loving of men. Glorified smoke, like a halo of pity, Over the city. GREEN CROSSES At the back of the pompous houses, Above the beautiful river-way, A row of squalid barrels Blush at themselves in the morning light. From one grotesquely leaning, Dusty and scarred Amid the dead, forgotten slag and ashes, A fir-tree thrusts its live, protesting fingers— Crosses of green. About it still cling a few silver cobwebs, Rags of its brief splendor. It was the Christmas Tree That graced the cheerful drawing-room A little while; That blessed the comfortable house with its fragrance, And with its symbols of love, The small green crosses.