From State street bridge a snow-white glimpse of sea Beyond the river walled in by red buildings, O'ertopped by masts that take the sunset's gildings, Roped to the wharf till spring shall set them free. Great floes make known how swift the river's current. Out of the north sky blows a cutting wind. Smoke from the stacks and engines in a torrent Whirls downward, by the eddying breezes thinned. Enskyed are sign boards advertising soap, Tobacco, coal, transcontinental trains. A tug is whistling, straining at a rope, Fixed to a dredge with derricks, scoops and cranes. Down in the loop the blue-gray air enshrouds, As with a cyclops' cape, the man-made hills And towers of granite where the city crowds. Above the din a copper's whistle shrills. There is a smell of coffee and of spices. We near the market place of trade's devices. Blue smoke from out a roasting room is pouring. A rooster crows, geese cackle, men are bawling. Whips crack, trucks creak, it is the place of storing, And drawing out and loading up and hauling Fruit, vegetables and fowls and steaks and hams, Oysters and lobsters, fish and crabs and clams. And near at hand are restaurants and bars, Hotels with rooms at fifty cents a day, Beer tunnels, pool rooms, places where cigars And cigarettes their window signs display; Mixed in with letterings of printed tags, Twine, boxes, cartels, sacks and leather bags, Wigs, telescopes, eyeglasses, ladies' tresses, Or those who manicure or fashion dresses, Or sell us putters, tennis balls or brassies, Make shoes, pull teeth, or fit the eye with glasses. And now the rows of windows showing laces, Silks, draperies and furs and costly vases, Watches and mirrors, silver cups and mugs, Emeralds, diamonds, Indian, Persian rugs, Hats, velvets, silver buckles, ostrich-plumes, Drugs, violet water, powder and perfumes. Here is a monstrous winking eye--beneath A showcase by an entrance full of teeth. Here rubber coats, umbrellas, mackintoshes, Hoods, rubber boots and arctics and galoshes. Here is half a block of overcoats, In this bleak time of snow and slender throats. Then windows of fine linen, snakewood canes, Scarfs, opera hats, in use where fashion reigns. As when the hive swarms, so the crowded street Roars to the shuffling of innumerable feet. Skyscrapers soar above them; they go by As bees crawl, little scales upon the skin Of a great dragon winding out and in. Above them hangs a tangled tree of signs, Suspended or uplifted like dædalian Hieroglyphics when the saturnalian Night commences, and their racing lines Run fire of blue and yellow in a puzzle, Bewildering to the eyes of those who guzzle, And gourmandize and stroll and seek the bubble Of happiness to put away their trouble.