The sun has gone, and from the ferryboat
That like a golden worm crawls through the night,
I watch the myriad stars that round me float,
And, cityward, the honeycombs of light.

Tier after tier, they blossom in the dark,
Miraculously radiant, while I
Think of the toilers bent beneath each spark,
And breathe a little prayer for them, and sigh.