Empire Waits

Do you know there are places where the quiet heart can go
In the depths of the city where the winds forget to blow
Or on ghostly avenues where stand streetcorner dates,
Or round the penultimate corner where empire waits?
And here there are tinklings of something obscure,
A falling-down sound or a scent somehow pure-
Blown from backstreets of bridges, and burnt clocks that chime
That the night of the city is mine.
There she lurks, the sweet phantom, or anima-shade
Where the glimmers of Friday night fade-
And she steals my wan heart, and abandons it there
To steal sweet summer songs from the wings of despair.
(Do you know there is meaning when crowds leave the streets,
In the dust and debris, in the echoes of feet,
And in those dull echoes you hear a heartbeat
That sounds and resounds with memories sweet?)
..... and the sharp sound of triumph, that follows you on,
Till its echoes are gone,
One by one.
But in that there are secrets, and signals, and signs
Of a voice of salvation whose tone is sublime
From the sad wings of death, and the dull banks of time,
And it sings that the night of the city is mine,
Always mine.