How many dawns, chill from his rippling rest
The seagull's wings shall dip and pivot him
Shedding white rings of tumult, building high
Over the chained bay waters Liberty--
Then, with inviolate curve, forsake our eyes
As apparitional as sails that cross
Some page of figures to be filed away;
--Till elevators drop us from our day . .
I think of cinemas, panoramic sleights
With multitudes bent toward some flashing scene
Never disclosed, but hastened to again
An image of everyday life in the modern city: the office workers descending in an elevator at the end of the day. 

To Brooklyn Bridge