Charles de Kay (1848–1935)

O RESTLESS throng, massed on the shovel prow

That eats the moonlit reaches of the river,

Ye feel them too, those mysteries that quiver

Through deeps of tenderness on high, below,

Shooting in stars, glancing through eyes that glow

Yellow, red, green among the barks, and shiver

The North with splendors from a boundless giver

And seam the dark with lamps that come and go.

For hushed are hoof-stamp, babble and the sharp

Jangle of bells, and songs uncouth are still;

O’erhead resounds the vast Æolian harp

Built for the god of storms by human will,

The Bridge—whose twin colossi with their warp

Frame for the dawn’s white feet a curving sill.