SUBWAY WIND
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ar down, down through the city’s great, gaunt gutThe gray train rushing bears the weary wind;In the packed cars the fans the crowd’s breath cut,Leaving the sick and heavy air behind.And pale-cheeked children seek the upper doorTo give their summer jackets to the breeze;Their laugh is swallowed in the deafening roarOf captive wind that moans for fields and seas;Seas cooling warm where native schooners driftThrough sleepy waters, while gulls wheel and sweep,Waiting for windy waves the keels to liftLightly among the islands of the deep;Islands of lofty palm trees blooming whiteThat lend their perfume to the tropic sea,Where fields lie idle in the dew drenched night,And the Trades float above them fresh and free.
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