ON FIFTH AVENUE

I walked down Fifth Avenue the other day

( In the languid summertime everybody strolls down

Fifth Avenue );

And I passed women, dainty in their filmy frocks,

And much bespatted men with canes.

And great green busses lumbered past me,

And impressive limousines, and brisk little‘ lectrics.

I walked down Fifth Avenue the other day,

And the sunshine smiled at me,

And something, deep in my heart, burst into song.

And then, all at once, I saw her —

A woman with painted lips and rouge-touched cheeks —

Standing in front of a jeweler's window.

She was looking at diamonds —

A tray of great blue-white diamonds —

And I saw a flame leap out of her eyes to meet them

( Greedy eyes they were, and cold, like too-perfect jewels );

And I realized, for the first time,

That diamonds were n't always pretty.

And then I SAW THE OTHER ONE:

A thin little girl looking into a florist's shop

At a fragrant mass of violets, dew-purple and fresh.

She carried a huge box on her arm,

And a man, passing, said loudly,

“I guess somebody's hat'll be late today!”

And the thin little girl flushed and hurried on,

But not before I had seen the tenderness in her eyes —

The tenderness that real women show

When they look at vast rolling hills, or flowers, or very small pink babies.