Hart Crane lived for a time at 45 Grove Street (he more famously had an apartment with a view of the Brooklyn Bridge) and his birthday is July 21.
Crane was a poet in the Rimbaud fashion. His life was restless, chaotic and short.
It may have been a good life for producing poetry, but it was a terrible life to have lived through.
And so, it ended in a tragic and painful fashion with sailors, sex, drunkenness, robbery, humiliation and finally suicide at sea and a body never found.
You can read about his life in other places. I'll give a few small samples of his poetry:
His thoughts, delivered to me
From the white coverlet and pillow,
I see now, were inheritances --
Delicate riders of the storm.
"Praise for an Urn" in The Norton Anthology of Modern Poetry
There are no stars to-night
But those of memory.
Yet how much room for memory there is
In the loose girdle of soft rain.
"My Grandmother's Love Letters" in The Norton Anthology of Modern Poetry
And Thee, across the harbor, silver-paced
As though the sun took steps of thee, yet left
Some motion ever unspent in they stride,
Implicitly thy freedom staying thee!
"The Bridge" in The Norton Anthology of Modern Poetry