“Beneath
the liquid splendor of the lights
We live a little ere the charm 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, from “Broadway,” in her Rivers to the Sea (1915)
(The image accompanying this post was taken from
the 1920s, when the “liquid splendor of the lights” would likely have been even
more dramatic than when Teasdale witnessed it a decade before.)
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