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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=115331" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>A summer idyl</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">The city is dreary and dusty and lone,<br>  The Smiths and the Joneses and Jenkinses gone;<br>  The doors are all barred, and the shutters all down,<br>  And nobody left in this desolate town---<br>  Save the sweeper who wearily loiters and lags,<br>  The ashman, and he who cries "Bottles and rags!"<br>  And a hurrying crowd one knows nothing about,<br>  Though each one of them somebody cares for, no doubt;<br>  The streets everywhere are plowed into a rut,<br>  For putting down pipes that never stay put.<br>  Gazing up from my window above may be scanned<br>  A strip of the sky as wide as my hand;<br>  At least a square yard once of emerald green;<br>  But now from the heat and sewer-gas, behold!<br>  It has taken the favorite hue of old gold.<br>  Then the odors,---not Milton's Sabean, I own,<br>  Nor yet those that Coleridge found at Cologne,<br>  But here to our trained, tried olfactories known,<br>  As the Hunter's Point perfume---from boiling old bone.<br>  You boast of your singing birds lodged in the trees,<br>  Of the dash of the waves, the sigh of the breeze,</div><div style="margin:10px 0">  The lowing of herds, the hum of the bees---<br>  Sweet voices of Nature,---but what are all these<br>  The wail of the cats as they stray o'er the fences;<br>  Till a friend at my side, in a rage going on,<br>  Makes use of "cuss words" and calls for his gun.<br>  And here comes the organ that stops at our door,<br>  To grind out its music that makes, with the roar<br>  Of the wagons and carts as they rumble and jolt<br>  O'er the roughly paved streets, a prolonged thunderbolt;<br>  And every two minutes the up-in-air train<br>  Goes whirring along like a demon insane;<br>  Till all thought is dispersed, like a mist in the air,<br>  And silence is golden, we meekly declare.<br>  Then the heat that no thoughts of the blizzard assuage,<br>  When Phoebus and Fahrenheit start a rampage;<br>  And when "General Humidity" joins in the tilt,<br>  Like plucked flowers of the field the poor mortal must wilt,<br>  Till he cries, like the wit, in disconsolate tones,<br>  To take off his flesh and sit in his bones.<br>  But, however, to sum up and make myself clear,<br>  For July and August I would not be here;<br>  But give me New-York for nine months of the year,---<br>  With all its shortcomings there 's no place so dear;<br>  With its life and its rush, what it does and has done,<br>  There is no city like it under the sun.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Anne+Lynch+Botta">Anne Lynch Botta</a> from <i>Poems</i><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=115331" data-title="A summer idyl de Anne Lynch Botta" data-description="The city is dreary and dusty and lone,/  The Smiths and the Joneses and Jenkinses gone;/  The doors are all barred, and the shutters all down,/  And nobody left in this desolate town---/  Save the sweeper who wearily loiters and lags,/  The ashman..."></div>
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