In spite of his lapses and lack of selective taste, Wheelock is often a stirring lyricist. The Human Fantasy is one of the most remarkable “first” books of the period.
SUNDAY EVENING IN THE COMMON
Look—on the topmost branches of the world
The blossoms of the myriad stars are thick;
Over the huddled rows of stone and brick,
A few, sad wisps of empty smoke are curled
Like ghosts, languid and sick.
One breathless moment now the city’s moaning
Fades, and the endless streets seem vague and dim;
There is no sound around the whole world’s rim,