Classic and Contemporary Poetry
AN IVORY MINIATURE, by HELEN GRAY CONE First Line: When state street homes were stately still Last Line: This woven wreath of rhymes. Alternate Author Name(s): Green, Coroebus Subject(s): Murray Hill, New York; New York City; Manhattan; New York, New York; The Big Apple | ||||||||
When State Street homes were stately still, When out of town was Murray Hill, In late deceased "old times" Of vast, embowering bonnet shapes And creamy-crinkled Canton crapes And florid annual-rhymes, He owned a small suburban seat Where now you see a modern street, A monochrome of brown: The sad "brown brown" of Dante's dreams, A twilight turned to stone that seems To weight our city down. Through leafy chestnuts whitely showed The pillared front of his abode: A garden girt it 'round, Where pungent box did trim enclose The marigold and cabbage rose, And "pi'ny" heavy-crowned. Yea, whatso sweets the changing years, He most affected. Gone! but here's His face who loved them so Old eyes like sherry, warm and mild; A clear-hued cheek as cheek of child; Sleek head, a sphere of snow. His mouth was pious, and his nose Patrician; with which mould there goes A disaffected view. In those sublime, be-oratored, Spread-eagle days, his soul deplored So much red-white-and-blue! In umber ink, with S's long, He left behind him censure strong, In stiffest phrases clothed! But timea pleasant jest enough! Has turned the tory leaves to buff, The liberal hue he loathed! Of many a gentle deed he made Brief simple record. Never fade Those everlasting flowers That spring up wild in good men's walks; Opinions wither on their stalks, And sere grow Fashion's bowers. Erect, befrilled, in neckcloth tall, His semblance sits, removed from all Our needs and noises new; Released from all the rent we pay As tenants of the large To-day, Cool, in a background blue. And he beneath a cherub chipped Plump, squamous-pinioned, pouting-lipped, Sleeps calm where Trinity Points fingers dark to clouds that fleet; A warning, seen from surging street, A welcome seen from sea. There fall, ghost glorified of tears Shed for the dead in buried years, The silver notes of chimes; And there, with not unreverent hand Though light, I lay this "greene garlànd," This woven wreath of rhymes. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...READY FOR THE CANNERY by BERTON BRALEY TRANTER IN AMERICA by AUGUST KLEINZAHLER MEETING YOU AT THE PIERS by KENNETH KOCH FEBRUARY EVENING IN NEW YORK by DENISE LEVERTOV ON 52ND STREET by PHILIP LEVINE THREE POEMS FOR NEW YORK by JOSEPHINE MILES NEW YORK SUBWAY by HILDA MORLEY A CALL TO THE BUILDERS by HELEN GRAY CONE |
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