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Lola Ridge
Long vast shapes... cooled and flushed through with darkness....
Lidless windows
Glazed with a flashy luster
From some little pert cafe chirping up like a sparrow.
And down among iron guts
Piled silver
Throwing gray spatter of light... pale without heat...
Like the pallor of dead bodies.
The grave of Alexander Hamilton is in Trinity yard
at the end of Wall Street.
The grave of Robert Fulton likewise is in Trinity
yard where Wall Street stops.
And in this yard stenogs, bundle boys, scrubwomen,
sit on the tombstones, and walk on the grass of
graves, speaking of war and weather, of babies,
wages and love.
An iron picket fence . . . and streaming thousands
along Broadway sidewalks . . . straw hats,
faces, legs ... a singing, talking, hustling river
. . . down the great street that ends with a Sea.
. . . easy is the sleep of Alexander Hamilton.
. . . easy is the sleep of Robert Fulton.
. . . easy are the great governments and the great
steamboats.