Brooklyn bridge, revisiting,

After a long traverse
Like a solemn verse
Music whence Hers
like a chant
he felt within
Flowing,
The bridge of Brooklyn
Like a scene
Came...

And he
Thought
The battles,
The wars,
The hurricanes,
As if old foolish things
Pure nothing...

And
Her he did see
There,
Flowing from little Italy
Like a river
In blue and white and slight greenish tinge...

he stood quiet
On the orange rails
Resting his legs
And aching back,
As if by standing there
She could he feel,
Her eternal flow
Her shiny glow
Her italian accent~
As if an ascent
To the innermost...
The best blessed him...

There standing quiet
Like a man proper
Resting
Lit up
he her did see
Like a flow
A river
In blue and white and slight green...