But here is an artist. He desires to paint you the dreamiest, shadi-est, quietest, most enchanting bit of romantic landscape in all the val-ley of the Saco

But look! here come more crowds, pacing straight for the water,and seemingly bound for a dive. Strange! Nothing will content thembut the extremest limit of the land;

Some leaning against the spiles; some seated upon thepier-heads; some looking over the bulwarks of ships from Chi

–commerce surrounds it with hersurf. Right and left, the streets take you waterward. Its extreme down-town is the Battery,

almost all men in their degree, some time or other,cherish very nearly the same feelings towards the ocean with me

that it requires a strongmoral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into thestreet, and methodically knocking people’s hats of

nothing particularto interest me on shore, I thought I would sail about a little and see thewatery part of the world.

Move, pause, move through the rooms,White birch leaves shiver in breezesWhile guards watch the world,Helicopters making their long humming tripsTrading pollen and nectarIn the airof theSea of Economy,

Rivers that never give upTrill under the roadbed, over the bedrock

Siren howls echoingThrough the gridlock of structures,Vibrating with helicopters,the bass toneof a high jet.

New leaves, “new green” on a rock ledgeOf steep little uplift, tucked among trees