Sara Teasdale Sara Teasdale Broadway
- This is the quiet hour; the theaters
- Have gathered in their crowds, and steadily
- The million lights blaze on for few to see,
- Robbing the sky of stars that should be hers.
- A woman waits with bag and shabby furs,
- A somber man drifts by, and only we
- Pass up the street unwearied, warm and free,
- For over us the olden magic stirs.
- Beneath the liquid splendor of the lights
- We live a little ere the charm is spent;
- This night is ours, of all the golden nights,
- The pavement an enchanted palace floor,
- And Youth the player on the viol, who sent
- A strain of music through an open door
Sara Teasdale