New York ‒ an ensemble of all the civilizations of history, its towers rising into the blue like vast instruments in the orchestra of time.
"Humoresque"... that laugh on life with a tear behind it.
It is like life, son, that piece. Crying to hide its laughing... and laughing to hide its crying.
But I've a rendezvous with Death
On some scarred slope of battered hill
When Spring comes "round again this year
And the first meadow-flowers appear".
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