They have watered the street,
 It shines in the glare of lamps,
 Cold, white lamps,
 And lies
 Like a slow-moving river,
 Barred with silver and black.
 Cabs go down it,
 One,
 And then another.
 Between them I hear the shuffling of feet.
 Tramps doze on the window-ledges,
 Night-walkers pass along the sidewalks.
 The city is squalid and sinister,
 With the silver-barred street in the midst,
 Slow-moving,
 A river leading nowhere.

Opposite my window,
 The moon cuts,
 Clear and round,
 Through the plum-colored night.
 She cannot light the city;
 It is too bright.
 It has white lamps,
 And glitters coldly.

I stand in the window and watch the moon.
 She is thin and lustreless,
 But I love her.
 I know the moon,
 And this is an alien city.