The Amaranth

 Ah, in the night, all music haunts me here.
 .
 .
 .

Is it for naught high Heaven cracks and yawns
And the tremendous Amaranth descends
Sweet with the glory of ten thousand dawns?

Does it not mean my God would have me say: — 
"Whether you will or no, O city young, 
Heaven will bloom like one great flower for you, 
Flash and loom greatly all your marts among?"

Friends, I will not cease hoping though you weep.
 
Such things I see, and some of them shall come 
Though now our streets are harsh and ashen-gray,
Though our strong youths are strident now, or dumb.

Friends, that sweet town, that wonder-town, shall rise.

Naught can delay it.
 Though it may not be
Just as I dream, it comes at last I know
With streets like channels of an incense-sea.

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