MY little garden wall is gray Where amber grapes are growing, But I must be where walls are tall, And crowds are going. I long to hear the news-boys' call— Wheels grinding, whistles blowing. There is silver frost on the dahlia blooms, And orchid smoke on a saffron sky, But the black shine of a rain-wet street Where hurrying feet go by Is color enough for one who is tired With watching the wild birds fly. |