In Morningside Heights I stand
As if in a dark and haunted land.
As a stranger, strolling in the mist
I recall the memories dearest
In my heart, as lively as I can.
Serene as ever Hudson flows,
Bright as ever Manhattan grows,
But alas! Why they seem to me
Not the river that used to be,
Nor the city to which I felt close?
Are they changed or am I changed?
Is it by fate that we are arranged?
Central Park is still fresh and green,
But something dear has lost its sheen.
O, by the years we are estranged.
New York
