Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). The New Poetry: An Anthology. 1917.

Great City

WHEN I returned at sunset,

The serving-maid was singing softly

Under the dark stairs, and in the house

Twilight had entered like a moon-ray.

Time was so dead I could not understand

The meaning of midday or of midnight,

But like falling waters, falling, hissing, falling,

Silence seemed an everlasting sound.

I sat in my room,

And watched sunset,

And saw starlight.

I heard the tramp of homing men,

And the last call of the last child;

Then a lone bird twittered,

And suddenly, beyond the housetops,

I imagined dew in the country,

In the hay, on the buttercups;

The rising moon,

The scent of early night,

The songs, the echoes,

Dogs barking,

Day closing,

Gradual slumber,

Sweet rest.

When all the lamps were lighted in the town

I passed into the street ways and I watched,

Wakeful, almost happy,

And half the night I wandered in the street.