This is the quiet hour; the theatres
Have gathered in their crowds, and steadily
The millions lights blaze on for few to see,
Robbing the sky of stars that should be hers.
A woman waits with bag and shabby furs,
A somber man drifts by, and only we
Pass up the street unwearied, warm and free,
For over us the olden magic stirs.
Beneath the liquid splendor of the lights
We live a little ere the charms is spent;
This night is ours, of all the golden nights,
The pavement an enchanted palace floor,
And Youth the player on the viol, who sent
A strain of music thru an open door.
Sara Teasdale
Cette nuit est la nôtre,
de toutes les nuits d'or,
La chaussée un étage
de palais enchanté,
Et la jeunesse le joueur sur le viol, qui a envoyé
Une souche de la musique à travers une porte ouverte.
