April on the Rialto

A canyon of granite and steel, A river of grim unrest, And over the fever and street-dust Arches the azure of dream. And fretting along the tumult, Threading the iron curbs, Tawdry in tinsel and feather Drift the daughters of pleasure, The sad-eyed traders in song, The makers of joy, The Columbines of the city Seeking their ends! But under the beaded eye-lash, Under the lip with its rouge, Under the mask of white Splashed with geranium-red, As God's own arch of azure Leans softly over the street, Surely, this day, runs warmer The blood through a wasted breast!