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He strolled happily down Fifth Avenue, finding
all faces beautiful and wondrously kind,
the lacy fragility of the city trees
incomparably superior to
his huge native forests.
Under the giant diesel hum of street
and harbor, he caught
the sweet music of danger,
the voices of deathless love
and magic adventure.
My city, he had exulted,
mine for these hours at least,
no matter what comes after.
He wanted to embrace
the Library lions,
following each smiling girl...
bellow his joy from the top
of the Empire State Building.
Wandering on foot or bus
in a joyous daze he suddenly came
at evening upon the treasure itself:
a softly lit quiet park into which
the avenue had disappeared.
The Wicked Pavillion
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| The prose-to-verse quote is from page 11 of this edition. The next Dawn Powell page is here. |
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