TO THE BRONX 



I sat me down upon a green bank side, 

 Skirting the smooth edge of a gentle river, 



Whose waters seemed unwillingly to glide, 



Like parting friends, who linger while they sever; 



Enforced to go, yet seeming still unready, 



Backward they wind their way in many a wistful eddy. 



And I did leave thy loveliness to stand 



Again in the dull world of earthly blindness, 



Pain'd with the pressure of unfriendly hands, 

 Sick of smooth looks, agued with icy kindness; 



Left I for this thy shades, where none intrude, 



To prison wandering thought and mar sweet solitude. 



Yet I will look upon thy face again, 

 My own romantic Bronx, and it will be 



A face more pleasant than the face of men. 

 Thy waves are old companions ; I shall see 



A well-remembered form in each old tree, 



And hear a voice long loved in thy wild minstrelsy. 



Joseph Rodman Drake. 



