A Glory

It was night in the heart of the city,
Past midnight, and walkers were few,
But these few had no fear of the city,
And walked in their solitude true.
Some were poets, and some were inventors;
Here and there a musician would hum;
The ideas inside churning fervent
And bubbling in joy to a sum—
A sum, a hot something more perfect,
A bare thing, a beauty, a height,
Just needing that one little turning
To fashion up blazings so bright
That rapt souls of the thinkers would bow to
The minds that had turned into light!
One stops; he is sure he has got it!
On a tower he leans for support.
Another looks down to a puddle,
Which reflects not the stars, but his work!
Past shoulders of giants the moon comes;
There’s a glory round many a face,
And a pianist whistles, a poet mums,
And an inventor quickens his pace!

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