Sunday Evening In The Common

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!