| Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). The New Poetry: An Anthology. 1917. |
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| 396. Sunday Evening in the Common |
| | | By John Hall Wheelock |
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| LOOK—on the topmost branches of the world | |
| The blossoms of the myriad stars are thick; | |
| Over the huddled rows of stone and brick | |
| A few sad wisps of empty smoke are curled | |
| Like ghosts, languid and sick. | 5 |
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| One breathless moment now the city’s moaning | |
| Fades, and the endless streets seem vague and dim; | |
| There is no sound around the world’s rim, | |
| Save in the distance a small band is droning | |
| Some desolate old hymn. | 10 |
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| Van Wyck, how often have we been together | |
| When this same moment made all mysteries clear— | |
| The infinite stars that brood above us here, | |
| And the gray city in the soft June weather, | |
| So tawdry and so dear! | 15 |
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