WHEN with her clouds the early dawn illumes Our doubtful streets, wistful they grow and mild As if a sleeping soul grew happy and smiled, The whole dark city radiantly blooms. Pale spires lift their hands above the glooms Like a resurrection, delicately wild, And flushed with slumber like a little child, Under a mist, shines forth the innocent Tombs. Thus have I seen it from a casement high. As unsubstantial as a dream it grows. Is this Manhattan, virginal and shy, that in a cloud so rapturously glows? Ethereal, frail, and like an opening rose, I see my city with an enlightened eye. |