The Lights of New York

by Sara Teasdale

The lightning spun your garment for the night
  Of silver filaments with fire shot thru,
  A broidery of lamps that lit for you
The steadfast splendor of enduring light.
The moon drifts dimly in the heaven's height,
  Watching with wonder how the earth she knew
  That lay so long wrapped deep in dark and dew,
Should wear upon her breast a star so white.
The festivals of Babylon were dark
  With flaring flambeaux that the wind blew down;
The Saturnalia were a wild boy's lark
  With rain-quenched torches dripping thru the town—
But you have found a god and filched from him
A fire that neither wind nor rain can dim.

Monadnock Valley Press > Teasdale