A spring wind on the Bowery, br Blowing the fluff of night shelters br Off bedraggled garments, br And agitating the gutters, that eject little spirals of vapor br Like lewd growths. br br Bare-legged children stamp in the puddles, splashing each other, br One - with a choir-boy's face br Twits me as I pass… br The word, like a muddied drop, br Seems to roll over and not out of br The bowed lips, br Yet dewy red br And sweetly immature. br br People sniff the air with an upward look - br Even the mite of a girl br Who never plays… br Her mother smiles at her br With eyes like vacant lots br Rimming vistas of mean streets br And endless washing days… br Yet with sun on the lines br And a drying breeze. br br The old candy woman br Shivers in the young wind. br Her eyes - littered with memories br Like ancient garrets, br Or dusty unaired rooms where someone died - br Ask nothing of the spring. br br But a pale pink dream br Trembles about this young girl's body, br Draping it like a glowing aura. br br She gloats in a mirror br Over her gaudy hat, br With its flower God never thought of… br br And the dream, unrestrained, br Floats about the loins of a soldier, br Where it quivers a moment, br Warming to a crimson br Like the scarf of a toreador… br br But the delicate gossamer breaks at his contact br And recoils to her in strands of shattered rose.