Orchestrations Walking on Delancey Street
As the spring segues to summer, I have heard
Above the gentle sanding of my feet,
The wash of leaves upon Delancey Street.
From far beyond the houses, thin and blurred,
Comes an undertone of drumming-long, absurd
Protestings from a thousand motors gnashing;
Gruff buses, and police with sirens flashing
—And over all a single, singing bird.
If I could hold a day for fifty years,
It would be such as this; if I could be
One person at one moment, I would stay
Between the spring and summer, ever free
Of any thought of any other day
When music dies, and nothing sings or hears.