The smoke lies low on the city tonight
Hazy and heavy and hot;
The sun dies lonely in the sooted west
Cropped and crimson, a smoldering dot;
We watch with eyes that are parched with dust,
While we remember a wild dream,
Of the way the rain drenches, cool and wet
And how it makes the city lights gleam.
Below is a poem set to the same style as Sara Teasdale’s Sunset: St. Louis
Hushed in the still gray fog of July rains
When humanity teems below in wild chatter
How many times have I seen my eastern mountain
Dream by her city.
High and still, shrouded in fathomless mist
That feints and flickers in a fickle ballet
Beneath muted sky she stands silent and strong
In lengthening shadows.
And when the light from the western sun breaks through
In soldered bars of gold and bronzed creation
Striking the clouds, my mountain still stands shining
In green and gold glory.
But I love my mountain most in rainy haze
When the gray rains come furtive and silent at dusk
And the lights blink on, gleaming through mist as my mountain strong
Dreams by her city.