LOWER NEW YORK — A STORM

WHITE wing'd below the darkling clouds

The driven sea-gulls wheel;

The roused sea flings a storm against

The towers of stone and steel.

The very voice of ocean rings

Along the shaken street —

Dusk, storm, and beauty whelm the world

Where sea and city meet —

But what care they for flashing wings,

Quick beauty, loud refrain,

These huddled thousands, deaf and blind

To all but greed and gain?