THIS is the quiet hour; the theaters Have gathered in their crowds, and steadily The million lights blaze on for few to see, Robbing the sky of stars that should be hers. A woman waits with bag and shabby furs, A somber man drifts by, and only we Pass up the street unwearied, warm and free, For over us the olden magic stirs. Beneath the liquid splendor of the lights We live a little ere the charm is spent; This night is ours, of all the golden nights, The pavement an enchanted palace floor, And Youth the player on the viol, who sent A strain of music thru an open door. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SOLOMON TO SHEBA by WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS THE ANGELUS; HEARD AT THE MISSION DOLORES IN SAN FRANCISCO, 1868 by FRANCIS BRET HARTE TO MADAME DE SEVIGNE by MATHIEU DE MONTREUIL BEAUTY ROHTRAUT by EDUARD FRIEDRICH MORIKE FARM-YARD SONG by JOHN TOWNSEND TROWBRIDGE PEARLS OF THE FAITH: 89, 90. MU'HTI, MANI'H by EDWIN ARNOLD A SONG OF SUN SETTING by JANE BARLOW FRAGMENTS INTENDED FOR DEATH'S JEST-BOOK: A NIGHT-SCENE by THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES |