Beneath the stone-flowered, lozenged steeple In the close-shuttered tower Mellow-tongued church-bells charm the people Thronging the hot noon hour. Above the trucks and clanging cars, Ambulance, van, and dray, They chime their slow and certain bars Ringing our wrongs away. Here, down at Tenth and Broadway, loom Dull walls. But liquid notes Still dream and rhyme and roam and boom From the bells' iron throats. And Broadway stretches ever South, Steep-cliffed, with crawling crowds; The white dream-tower that blocks its mouth Climbing against the clouds. And Thought still stretches like the street 'Twixt obdurate walls and high; Till, where drear fact and mystery meet, A white Dream cleaves the sky! |