Brooklyn Heights
This is the gay cliff of the nineteenth century,
Drenched in the hopeful ozone of a new day,

Erect and brown, like retired sea-captains,
The houses gaze vigorously at the ocean.

With the hospitable eyes of the retired captains
They preside over the meeting of the sea and river.

On Sunday mornings the citizens revisit their beginnings,
Whole families walk in the fresh air of the past.

Their children tricycle down the nineteenth century:
America comes smiling towards them like a neighbour.

While the past on three wheels rolls beneath them,
They hammer in the blazing forge of the future.

Brooklyn Bridge flies through the air on feathers.
The children do not know the weight of its girders.
It is the citizens carry the bridge on their shoulders:
Its overhead lights crackle in their blood-vessals.

But now it is Sunday morning, and a sky swept clean.
The citizens put down the bridge and stroll at ease.

They jingle hopeful change in their pockets.
They forget the tripping dance of the profit motive.

The big ships glide in under the high statue,
The towers cluster like spear-grass on the famous island.

And citizens dream themselves back in a sparkle of morning.
They ride with their children under a sky swept clearn.

Dream on, citizens! Dream the true America, the healer,
Drawing the hot blood from throbbing Europe!

Dream the dark-eyed immigrants from the narrow cities:
Dream the iron steamers loaded with prayers and bundles:

Breathe the ozone older than the name of commerce:
Be the citizens of true survival!