Far down, down through the city's great gaunt gut

  The gray train rushing bears the weary wind;

In the packed cars the fans the crowd's breath cut,

  Leaving the sick and heavy air behind.

And pale-cheeked children seek the upper door

  To give their summer jackets to the breeze;

Their laugh is swallowed in the deafening roar

  Of captive wind that moans for fields and seas;

Seas cooling warm where native schooners drift

  Through sleepy waters, while gulls wheel and sweep,

Waiting for windy waves the keels to lift

  Lightly among the islands of the deep;

Islands of lofty palm trees blooming white

  That led their perfume to the tropic sea,

Where fields lie idle in the dew-drenched night,

  And the Trades float above them fresh and free.