Look — on the topmost branches of the world
— The blossoms of the myriad stars are thick;
— Over the huddled rows of stone and brick
A few sad wisps of empty smoke are curled
— Like ghosts, languid and sick.

One breathless moment now the city's moaning
— Fades, and the endless streets seem vague and dim;
— There is no sound around the whole world's rim,
Save in the distance a small band is droning
— Some desolate old hymn.

Van Wyck, how often have we been together
— When this same moment made all mysteries clear —
— The infinite stars that brood above us here,
And the gray city in the soft June weather,
— So tawdry and so dear!