by Hart Crane

    How many dawns， chill from his rippling¹ rest

    The seagull's wings shall dip and pivot² him，

    Shedding white rings of tumult³， building high

    Over the chained bay waters Liberty

    Then， with inviolate⁴ curve， forsake⁵ our eyes

    As apparitional⁶ as sails that cross

    Some page of figures to be filed away；

    Till elevators drop us from our day . . .

    I think of cinemas， panoramic⁷ sleights

    With multitudes bent⁸ toward some flashing scene

    Never disclosed， but hastened to again，

    Foretold⁹ to other eyes on the same screen；

    And Thee， across the harbor， silver-paced

    As though the sun took step of thee， yet left

    Some motion ever unspent in thy stride，

    Implicitly¹⁰ thy freedom staying thee！

    Out of some subway scuttle¹¹， cell or loft¹²

    A bedlamite speeds to thy parapets，

    Tilting¹³ there momently， shrill¹⁴ shirt ballooning，

    A jest falls from the speechless caravan¹⁵.

    Down Wall， from girder into street noon leaks，

    A rip-tooth of the sky's acetylene；

    All afternoon the cloud-flown derricks turn . . .

    Thy cables breathe the North Atlantic still.

    And obscure as that heaven of the Jews，

    Thy guerdon . . . Accolade¹⁶ thou dost bestow¹⁷

    Of anonymity¹⁸ time cannot raise：

    Vibrant¹⁹ reprieve²⁰ and pardon thou dost show.

    O harp²¹ and altar， of the fury fused，

    （How could mere²² toil²³ align²⁴ thy choiring strings²⁵！）

    Terrific threshold of the prophet's pledge，

    Prayer of pariah²⁶， and the lover's cry，

    Again the traffic lights that skim thy swift

    Unfractioned idiom， immaculate sigh of stars，

    Beading thy path——condense eternity²⁷：

    And we have seen night lifted in thine arms.

    Under thy shadow by the piers²⁸ I waited；

    Only in darkness is thy shadow clear.

    The City's fiery²⁹ parcels all undone³⁰，

    Already snow submerges an iron year . . .

    O Sleepless³¹ as the river under thee，

    Vaulting³² the sea， the prairies' dreaming sod，

    Unto us lowliest sometime sweep， descend³³

    And of the curveship lend a myth to God.

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