Lonely young men walk, eager, to and fro
And search the passing faces—some find mates;
Against the railings leans a giggling row;
An amorous chauffeur puffs his horn and waits.
The crowds move up and down, white dresses gleam;
Some strolling niggers play a tune that trips,
While couples meet and glance, then leave the stream,
And youths look plaintively at young girls’ lips.
VII
So, to the Pines. Ah, here, in the hush’d blue