AN AUGUST NIGHT, 1914
The light has gone from the West; the wind has gone
From the quiet trees in the Park;
From the houses the open windows yellowly shine,
The streets are softly dark;
Row upon row the twisted chimneys stand,
Each angle sharply lined,
And the mass of the Institute rises, tower and dome,
Black on the sky behind;
Green is the sky, like some strange precious stone,
Dark, it yet holds the light
In its depths, like a bright thing shrouded over or veiled
By the creeping shadow of night;
And whiter than any whiteness there is upon earth
A faint star throbs and beats—
And the hurrying voices cry the news of the war,
Below, in the quiet street.