Twilight

The city seems so dreary, full of sleep,
Almost indifferent to what goes by;
Inside there may be feelings that run deep,
Beneath the steel that reaches to the sky,
But in this light, and at this time of day,
The towers seem disinterested and dull;
The roads are bleak, though not deserted yet;
Even the echoing of the seagull
Is half a whisper, as if it would set
Aside its hunger, and accept its fate.
No sound is desperate; nothing travels fast,
And all the daily rush seems to abate
As if it were a matter for the past.
I felt this too, until you crossed the street;
Now all is lively, urgent, sweet.