HYMN TO THE DAIRYMAIDS ON BEACON STREET
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Sweetly solemn see them stand, Spinning churns on either hand, Neatly capped and aproned white— Airy fairy dairy sight! Jersey priestesses they seem Miracleing milk to cream. Cream solidifies to cheese By Pasteural mysteries, And they give, within their shrine, Their communion in kine. Incantations pure they mutter O'er the golden minted butter And (no layman hand can pen it) See them gloat above their rennet! By that hillside window pane Rugged teamsters draw the rein, Doff the battered hat and bow To these acolytes of cow. Genuflect, ye passersby! Muse upon their ritual high— Milk to cream, yea, cream to cheese White lacteal mysteries! Let adorers sing the word Of the smoothly flowing curd. Yea, we sing with bells and fife This is the Whey, this is the Life! |
ON FIRST LOOKING INTO A SUBWAY EXCAVATION
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Much have I travelled, a commuter bold, And many goodly excavations seen; Round many miles of planking have I been Which wops in fealty to contractors hold. Oft of one wide expanse had I been told Where dynamite had swept the traffic clean, And every passer-by must duck his bean Or flying rocks would lay him stiff and cold. As I was crossing Broadway, with surprise I held my breath and improvised a prayer: I saw the solid street before me rise And men and trolleys leap into the air. I gazed into the pit with doubtful eyes, Silent upon a peak in Herald Square. |
BALLAD OF NEW AMSTERDAM
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There are no bowls on Bowling Green, No maids in Maiden lane; The river path to Greenwich No longer doth remain. No longer in the Bouwerie Stands Peter Stuyvesant his tree! And yet the Dutchmen built their dorp With sturdy wit and will; In Nassau street their spectral feet Are heard to echo still. In many places sure I am New York is still Nieuw Amsterdam. Sometimes at night in Bowling Green There comes a rumbling sound, Which literal minds are wont to think The Subway. But I found That still the Dutchmen ease their souls By playing ghostly games of bowls! |