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Sara Teasdale - The Lights Of New York
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The lightning spun your garment for the night 
Of silver filaments with fire shot thru, 
A broidery of lamps that lit for you 
The steadfast splendor of enduring light. 
The moon drifts dimly in the heaven`s height, 
Watching with wonder how the earth she knew 
That lay so long wrapped deep in dark and dew, 
Should wear upon her breast a star so white. 
The festivals of Babylon were dark 
With flaring flambeaux that the wind blew down; 
The Saturnalia were a wild boy`s lark 
With rain-quenched torches dripping thru the town— 
But you have found a god and filched from him 
A fire that neither wind nor rain can dim.
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