The Hotel
The long resounding marble corridors, the
shining parlors with shining women in
them.
The French room, with its gilt and garlands
under plump little tumbling painted loves'.
The Turkish room, with its jumble of many
carpets and its stiffly squared un-Turkish
chairs.
The English room, all heavy crimson and gold,
with spreading palms lifted high in round
green tubs.
The electric lights in twos and threes and hundreds,
made into festoons and spirals and
arabesques, a maze and magic of bright
persistent radiance.
The people sitting in corners by twos and
threes, and cooing together under the glare.
The long rows of silent people in chairs, watching
with eyes that see not while the patient
band tangles the air with music.
The bell-boys marching in with cards, and
shouting names over and over into ears
that do not heed.
The stout and gorgeous dowagers in lacy white
and lilac, bedizened with many jewels, with
smart little scarlet or azure hats on their
gray-streaked hair.
The business men in trim and spotless suits,
who walk in and out with eager steps, or
sit at the desks and tables, or watch the
shining women.
The telephone girls forever listening to far
voices, with the silver band over their hair
and the little black caps obliterating their
ears.
The telegraph tickers sounding their perpetual
chit—chit-chit from the uttermost ends of
the earth.
The waiters, in black swallow-tails and white
aprons, passing here and there with trays
of bottles and glasses.
The quiet and sumptuous bar-room, with purplish
men softly drinking in little alcoves,
while the bar-keeper, mixing bright liquors,
is rapidly plying his bottles.
The great bedecked and gilded café, with its
glitter of a thousand mirrors, with its little
white tables bearing gluttonous dishes
whereto bright forks, held by pampered
hands, flicker daintily back and forth.
[...] Read more
poem by Harriet Monroe
Added by Poetry Lover
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