| Hamilton Fish Armstrong, ed. The Book of New York Verse. 1917. | | | | The Angel of the Cornice | | By Florence Wilkinson Evans |
| | | LISTEN to me, ye creeping ants of men, | |
| Because of human hearts I snatched and slew, | |
| Because of blood poured out, because of blood, | |
| I am drawn close to you. | |
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| Listen, across the quivering sea of roofs | 5 |
| Thousands of miles—that cry along the wires! | |
| Aerial signals, soundless waves of air | |
| Heavy with import, moan of steel-spun spires! | |
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| I brood above the costliness of the task | |
| Through which these human creatures fall consumed. | 10 |
| Men, bow the head before the dizzying grave | |
| Whose valour and toil to such a death are doomed. | |
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| This is the harvest you have sowed; | |
| Your blood is mixed with mine, with mine; | |
| And I, who break you on my fiery wheel, | 15 |
| Not Moloch am I, but divine, divine. | |
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| The pitiless Angel of the Mercenary? | |
| Nay, for I too am great, | |
| Lifting the vast hopes of the modern world | |
| As on the knees of fate. | 20 |
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| I am Winged Victory at the prow, | |
| Oh ye who serve the God of force, | |
| Pilgrims that ride the deep with me, | |
| Ye, too, shall learn the love that is remorse. | | | | |
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