SUMMER NIGHT — BROADWAY

Night is the city's disease.

The streets and the people one sees

Glow with a light that is strangely inhuman;

A fever that never grows cold.

Heaven completes the disgrace;

For now, with her star-pitted face,

Night has the leer of a dissolute woman,

Cynical, moon-scarred and old.

And I think of the country roads;

Of the quiet, sleeping abodes,

Where every tree is a silent brother

And the hearth is a thing to cling to.

And I sicken and long for it now —

To feel clean winds on my brow,

Where Night bends low, like an all-wise mother

Looking for children to sing to.