You are a painter—listen— <br />I'll paint you a picture too! <br />Of the long white lights that glisten <br />Through Michigan Avenue; <br />With the red lights down the middle <br />Where the street shines mirror-wet, <br />While the rain-strung sky is a fiddle <br />For the wind to feel and fret. <br />Look! far in the east great spaces <br />Meet out on the level lake, <br />Where the lit ships veil their faces <br />And glide like ghosts at a wake; <br />And up in the air, high over <br />The rain-shot shimmer of light, <br />The huge sky-scrapers hover <br />And shake out their stars at the night. <br />Oh, the city trails gold tassels <br />From the skirts of her purple gown, <br />And lifts up her commerce castles <br />Like a jewel-studded crown. <br />See, proudly she moves on, singing <br />Up the storm-dimmed track of time— <br />Road dark and dire, <br />Where each little light <br />Is a soul afire <br />Against the night! <br />Oh, grandly she marches, flinging <br />Her gifts at our feet, and singing!— <br /> <br />Have I chalked out a sketch in my rhyme ?<br /><br />Harriet Monroe<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/at-twilight-2/
