I sold my brownstone windows full of leaves, moved to where the stern stones of corporations sun-glower windows down at me. The only green is the hanging gardens of Manhattan where terrace steps on leafy terrace blooming geraniums, clematis, and pastel profusions of petunias. I'd expected the querulous exchanges of cars and trucks, the garbage dinosaurs at 2 AM which grind up restaurant trash between their molars, but not St. Thomas's bells jubilating on Sunday morning or to wake at midnight in a past century to horses' hooves, their clopping rhythm muffled in fresh snow. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A BOOK OF AIRS: SONG 12. A RENUNCIATION by THOMAS CAMPION A DEAD HARVEST (IN KENSINGTON GARDENS) by ALICE MEYNELL DRIVING HOME THE COWS by KATE PUTNAM OSGOOD LITTLE BELL by THOMAS WESTWOOD EPIGRAM by DECIMUS MAGNUS AUSONIUS SONG OF THE SUPERMAN by HARRY RANDOLPH BLYTHE LADIES FAIR by ANNA HEMPSTEAD BRANCH |