STREET LAMPS
Softly they take their being, one by one,
From the lamp-lighter’s hand, after the sun
Has dropped to dusk ... like little flowers they bloom
Set in long rows amid the growing gloom.
Who he who lights them is, I do not know,
Except that, every eve, with footfall slow
And regular, he passes by my room
And sets his gusty flowers of light a-bloom.