Broadway
What hurrying human tides, or day or night! What passions, winnings, losses, ardors, swim thy waters! What whirls of evil, bliss and sorrow, stem thee! What curious questioning glances—glints of love! Leer, envy, scorn, contempt, hope, aspiration! Thou portal—thou arena—thou of the myriad long-drawn lines and groups! (Could but thy flagstones, curbs, façades, tell their inimitable tales; Thy windows rich, and huge hotels—thy side-walks wide;) Thou of the endless sliding, mincing, shuffling feet! Thou, like the parti-colored world itself—like infinite, teeming, mocking life! Thou visor’d, vast, unspeakable show and lesson!
To Get the Final Lilt of Songs
To get the final lilt of songs, To penetrate the inmost lore of poets—to know the mighty ones, Job, Homer, Eschylus, Dante, Shakespeare, Tennyson, Emerson; To diagnose the shifting-delicate tints of love and pride and doubt—to truly understand, To encompass these, the last keen faculty and entrance-price, Old age, and what it brings from all its past experiences.
Old Salt