Caleidoscopical, grotesque and more variegated than theatre, museum and morgue — is towering
the miracle of the century, the apocaliptyc city: New York .
A sorcerer in purple togas wrapped in loud out-cries, on a sparkling chariot of fire along the bright
Broadway .
When the evening, a merry drunkard, drives the sober day from the skies, lights stream like
colorful liquor from the lamps on every corner
In the city of steel rhombuses, where one rhombus rests on another, red electric lamps set aflame
bright unrest in the blood of hermits .

My poems cast upon the worlds rude seas
& they who read may censure if they please
Then waves in storms their spite is nothing more
That lash rage weary on a heedless shore

Over all the roofs hangs a quiet night. Leaning against the window my child stands musing .
He stands on tiptoe, keeps gazing out — his face grows pale and his eyes widen .
His fair curls flow in the wind. God alone knows what my child beholds .

The swallow watches on the chimney top
To be the first to wake the mornings eye
Ere yet its locks hath lost one pearly drop
Or one lark pays a visit to the sky

I change my dwelling places and change my haunts and wander from country to country, hoping that I shall yet meet my youth again and die kissing her gentle hand.
Thousands of faces pass before me in the great, stormy, human dance; the silent hope makes me calm, the deep quietude makes me ripe.
Eternity lies in my heart and weaves the threads of my old dream, and comforts and winks to me with distant stars, from the deep, mist-veiled abyss of life.

A quiet tap on the door, a gentle laughter, a sly kiss, a gentle pressing of the hand. A little window, a young tree, a soft couch of grass which nestles close to the wall.
A dark-blue sky with pale golden stars. In the stillness of the night the singing of a cricket. A distant murmur, that comes floating from the lake. A gentle breeze, that glides over the grass.
The edge of the horizon, that begins to pale; a white veil, that enwraps the lane. A last long kiss, a low tap on the shutter and after—distant steps, that resound mysteriously.

The shepherd boy bends to the sudden storm
With folded arms or hand held oer his nose
Then turns his back to catch his breath again
& button up his coat or slouch his hat
To hide his eyes or shake the gathered snow
From off his garments then with courage warmed
He turns about & faces it again

I am a circus lady and dance among daggers that are set on the arena with their points upward. Barely, barely touching the edge of the daggers, my flexible light body avoids death, that might be caused by falling.
With bated breath they view my dancing and someone there prays to God for me. Before my eyes the points glow in a fiery circle. And no one knows how I would like to fall. . . .

And though villainy reaches the upper firmament, yet from somewhere there sings righteousness and joy. And though the air be surfeited with nothingness and pride, you may yet at times discern the still, small voice.
And while the earth is deafened by loud-mouthed corruption, there is yet a heart that beats in harmony with earth's truth. And though arrogance shout in dissolute and wanton irruption, yet someone presses quietude to the threshold of your tent.

Vetches; both yellow, and blue,
Grew thick in the meadow lane,
Isabellas shawl kept off the dew,
As thickly upon her it came,
A thorn bush caught her umbrella,
As though it would bid her to stay,
But the loving, and loved Isabella,
Went laughing, and walking away.