The day is gray, not shifting gray
Of wind-blown fog and shining sea,
But steel-like, still, with that grim chill
Of barren, dead monotony!

No colors gleam, no banners fly,
No laughter rests the tired brain,
The old, grim drill, the money-mill;
And in the street the beat of rain.

Tame faces all about the room,
And tame the day, its dull routine:
Gay Youth seems but a mockery,
Trapped, helpless in the vast machine.

And yet, last night, high in the sky
The bright stars sang, the white moon shone,
While Beauty's self, that mystic elf,
Sat like a queen upon her throne!

Today the City's noise and dust,
Its heat and crowds and senseless speed,
Seem only selfishness and lust,
A cynical and cruel greed.

Men work in cages, like tamed beasts,
For shelter, children, daily bread—
Not just for gold—while young and old
Are haunted by one common dread. . . .

Not dread of pestilences, wars,
Not dread that Death may come too soon,
But fear of uselessness, lest they
May lose their work, that priceless boon!

And yet tonight, high in the sky,
The pale stars sing, the frail moon gleams,
As on our housetop you and I
Dream once again Love's fragile dreams. . . .