After the theaters have taken in their crowds, Broadway becomes strangely still. The million lights keep blazing, yet there are few people left to see them, and their glow outshines the stars. A woman waits with a bag and shabby furs; a somber man drifts past. But the speaker and a companion move up the street feeling warm, tireless, and free, as if an old magic belongs to them alone. Under the liquid light, the empty pavement feels like an enchanted palace floor. The night seems theirs—one of all the golden nights—and a strain of music from an open door becomes Youth itself playing just for them. The mood is intimate and romantic, caught between the city’s loneliness and a private sense of wonder, as though youth briefly turns the ordinary street into something enchanted.
Broadway — Summary
This is the quiet hour; the theaters Have gathered in their crowds, and steadily The million lights blaze on for few to see, Robbing the sky of stars that should be hers. A woman waits with bag and shabby furs, A somber man drifts by, and only we Pass up the street unwearied, warm and free, For over us the olden magic stirs. Beneath the liquid splendor of the lights We live a little ere the charm is spent; This night is ours, of all the golden nights, The pavement an enchanted palace floor, And Youth the player on the viol, who sent A strain of music thru an open door.