Classic and Contemporary Poetry
LILACS IN THE CITY, by WILLIAM BRIAN HOOKER Poet's Biography First Line: Amid the rush and fever of the street Last Line: God's answer to the wisdom of this world. Alternate Author Name(s): Hooker, Brian Subject(s): Flowers; Lilacs; New York City; Manhattan; New York, New York; The Big Apple | ||||||||
Amid the rush and fever of the street, The snarl and clash of countless quarrelling bells, And the sick, heavy heat, The hissing footsteps, and the hateful smells, I found you, speaking quietly Of sunlit hill-horizons and clean earth; While the pale multitude that may not dare To pause and live a moment, lest they die, Swarmed onward with hot eyes, and left you there -- An armful of God's glory, nothing worth. You are more beautiful than I can know. Even one loving you might gaze an hour Nor learn the perfect flow Of line and tint in one small, purple flower. There are no two of you the same, And every one is wonderful and new -- Poor baby-blossoms that have died unblown, And you that droop yourselves as if for shame, You too are perfect. I had hardly known The grace of your glad sisters but for you. You myriad of little litanies! Not as our bitter piety, subdued To cold creed that denies Or lying law that severs glad and good; But like a child's eyes, after sleep Uplifted; like a girl's first wordless prayer Close-held by him who loves her -- no distress Nor storm of supplication, but a deep, Dear heartache of such utter happiness As only utter purity can bear. For you are all the robin feels at dawn; The meaning of green dimness, and calm noons On high fields far withdrawn, Where the haze glimmers and the wild bee croons. You are the soul of a June night: -- Intimate joy of moon-swept vale and glade, Warm fragrance breathing upward from the ground, And eager winds tremulous with sharp delight Till all the tense-tuned gloom thrills like a sound -- Mystery of sweet passion unafraid. O sweet, sweet, sweet! You are the proof of all That over-truth our dreams have memory of That day cannot recall: Work without weariness, and tearless love, And taintless laughter. While we run To measure dust, and sounding names are hurled Into the nothingness of days unborn, You hold your little hearts up to the sun, Quietly beautiful amid our scorn -- God's answer to the wisdom of this world. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...READY FOR THE CANNERY by BERTON BRALEY TRANTER IN AMERICA by AUGUST KLEINZAHLER MEETING YOU AT THE PIERS by KENNETH KOCH FEBRUARY EVENING IN NEW YORK by DENISE LEVERTOV ON 52ND STREET by PHILIP LEVINE THREE POEMS FOR NEW YORK by JOSEPHINE MILES NEW YORK SUBWAY by HILDA MORLEY A BALLAD OF SIN by WILLIAM BRIAN HOOKER |
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