rowded world beyond--rolling valleys of
humanity--the heights of Harlem--but although my windows stand on
tiptoe, they may not discover these distant scenes.

On summer days these roofs burn in the sun and spirals of heat arise.
Tar flows from the joints in the tin. Tar and the adder--is it not a
bright day that brings them forth? Now washing hangs limp upon the
line. There is no frisk in undergarments. These stockings that hang
shriveled and anaemic--can it be possible that they once trotted to a
lively tune, or that a lifted skirt upon a crosswalk drew the eye? The
very spouts and chimneys droop in the heavy sunlight. All the spinning
vents are still. On these roofs, as on a steaming altar, August
celebrates its hot midsummer rites.

But in winter, when the wind is up, the roofs show another aspect. The
storm, in frayed and cloudy garment, now plunges across the city. It
snaps its boisterous fingers. It pipes a song to summon rowdy
companions off the sea. The whirling vents hum shrilly to the tune.
And the tempests are roused, and the windy creatures of the hills make
answer. The towers--even the nearer buildings--are obscured. The sky
is gray with rain. Smoke is torn from the chimneys. Down below let a
fire be snug upon the hearth and let warm folk sit and toast their
feet! Let shadows romp upon the walls! Let the andirons wink at the
sleepy cat! Cream or lemon, two lumps or one. Here aloft is brisker
business. There is storm upon the roof. The tempest holds a carnival.
And the winds pounce upon the smoke as it issues from the chimney-pots
and wring it by the neck as they bear it off.

And sometimes it seems that these roofs represent youth, and its
purpose, its ambition and adventure. For, from of old, have not poets
lived in garrets? And are not all poets young even if their beards are
white? Round and round the poet climbs, up these bare creaking flights
to the very top. There is a stove to be lighted--unless the woodbox
fails--a sloping ceiling and a window huddled to the floor. The poet's
fingers may be numb. Although the inkpot be full, his stomach may be
empty. And yet from this window, lately, a poem was cast upward to the
moon. And youth and truth still rhyme in these upper rooms. Linda's
voice is still the music of a sonnet. Still do the roses fade, and
love is always like the constant stars. And once, this!--surely from a
garret:

When I behold, upon the night's starr'd face,
Huge cloudy symbo