He lifts the eyes that cannot see. . . .
A blind man stumbles, groping past.

The window box across the street
Is filled with scarlet flowers;
They tell a secret, tender, sweet,
Through all the dreary hours.
And folk who hurry on their way
Dream of some other brighter day. . . .
The window box across the street
Is filled with scarlet flowers.




ON FIFTH AVENUE

I walked down Fifth Avenue the other day
(In the languid summertime everybody strolls down
Fifth Avenue);
And I passed women, dainty in their filmy frocks,
And much bespatted men with canes.
And great green busses lumbered past me,
And impressive limousines, and brisk little "lectrics.

I walked down Fifth Avenue the other day,
And the sunshine smiled at me,
And something, deep in my heart, burst into song.
And then, all at once, I saw her --
A woman with painted lips and rouge-touched