Richard Le Gallienne

OUT of the cleansing night of stars and tides,

Building itself anew in the slow dawn,

The long sea-city rises: night is gone,

Day is not yet; still merciful, she hides

Her summoning brow, and still the night-car glides

Empty of faces; the night-watchmen yawn

One to the other, and shiver and pass on,

Nor yet a soul over the great bridge rides.

Frail as a gossamer, a thing of air,

A bow of shadow o’er the river flung,

Its sleepy masts and lonely lapping flood;

Who, seeing thus the bridge a-slumber there,

Would dream such softness, like a picture hung,

Is wrought of human thunder, iron and blood?