NEW YORK CITY

New York, it would be easy to revileThe flatly carnal beggar in your smile,And flagellate, with a superior bliss,The gasping routines of your avarice.Loud men reward you with an obvious ax,Or piteous laurel-wreath, and their attacksAnd eulogies blend to a common sin.New York, perhaps an intellectual grinThat brings its bright cohesion to the warmConfusion of the heart, can mold your swarmOf huge, drab blunders into smaller grace ...With old words I shall gamble for your face.The evening kneels between your filthy brick,Darkly indifferent to each scheme and trickWith which your men insult and smudge their day.When evenings metaphysically prayAbove the weakening dance of men, they findThat every eye that looks at them is blind.And yet, New York, I say that evenings freeAn insolently mystic majestyFrom your parades of automatic greed.For one dark moment all your narrow speedReceives the fighting blackness of a soul,And every nervous lie swings to a whole—A pilgrim, blurred yet proud, who finds in blackAn arrogance that fills his straining lack.Between your undistinguished crates of stoneAnd wood, the wounded dwarfs who walked alone—The chorus-girls, whose indiscretions hangBetween the scavengers of rouge and slang;The women moulding painfully a freshExcuse for pliant treacheries of flesh;The men who raise the tin sword of a creed,Convinced that it can kill the lunge of greed;The thieves whose poisoned vanity purloinsA fancied victory from ringing coins;The staidly bloated men whose minds have soldTheir quickness to an old, metallic Scold;The neatly cultured men whose hopes and fearsDwell in soft prisons honored by past years;The men whose tortured youth bends to the taskOf hardening offal to a swaggering mask—The night, with black hands, gathers each mistakeAnd strokes a mystic challenge from each ache.The night, New York, sardonic and alert,Offers a soul to your reluctant dirt.

New York, it would be easy to revile

The flatly carnal beggar in your smile,

And flagellate, with a superior bliss,

The gasping routines of your avarice.

Loud men reward you with an obvious ax,

Or piteous laurel-wreath, and their attacks

And eulogies blend to a common sin.

New York, perhaps an intellectual grin

That brings its bright cohesion to the warm

Confusion of the heart, can mold your swarm

Of huge, drab blunders into smaller grace ...

With old words I shall gamble for your face.

The evening kneels between your filthy brick,Darkly indifferent to each scheme and trickWith which your men insult and smudge their day.When evenings metaphysically prayAbove the weakening dance of men, they findThat every eye that looks at them is blind.And yet, New York, I say that evenings freeAn insolently mystic majestyFrom your parades of automatic greed.For one dark moment all your narrow speedReceives the fighting blackness of a soul,And every nervous lie swings to a whole—A pilgrim, blurred yet proud, who finds in blackAn arrogance that fills his straining lack.Between your undistinguished crates of stoneAnd wood, the wounded dwarfs who walked alone—The chorus-girls, whose indiscretions hangBetween the scavengers of rouge and slang;The women moulding painfully a freshExcuse for pliant treacheries of flesh;The men who raise the tin sword of a creed,Convinced that it can kill the lunge of greed;The thieves whose poisoned vanity purloinsA fancied victory from ringing coins;The staidly bloated men whose minds have soldTheir quickness to an old, metallic Scold;The neatly cultured men whose hopes and fearsDwell in soft prisons honored by past years;The men whose tortured youth bends to the taskOf hardening offal to a swaggering mask—The night, with black hands, gathers each mistakeAnd strokes a mystic challenge from each ache.The night, New York, sardonic and alert,Offers a soul to your reluctant dirt.

The evening kneels between your filthy brick,

Darkly indifferent to each scheme and trick

With which your men insult and smudge their day.

When evenings metaphysically pray

Above the weakening dance of men, they find

That every eye that looks at them is blind.

And yet, New York, I say that evenings free

An insolently mystic majesty

From your parades of automatic greed.

For one dark moment all your narrow speed

Receives the fighting blackness of a soul,

And every nervous lie swings to a whole—

A pilgrim, blurred yet proud, who finds in black

An arrogance that fills his straining lack.

Between your undistinguished crates of stone

And wood, the wounded dwarfs who walked alone—

The chorus-girls, whose indiscretions hang

Between the scavengers of rouge and slang;

The women moulding painfully a fresh

Excuse for pliant treacheries of flesh;

The men who raise the tin sword of a creed,

Convinced that it can kill the lunge of greed;

The thieves whose poisoned vanity purloins

A fancied victory from ringing coins;

The staidly bloated men whose minds have sold

Their quickness to an old, metallic Scold;

The neatly cultured men whose hopes and fears

Dwell in soft prisons honored by past years;

The men whose tortured youth bends to the task

Of hardening offal to a swaggering mask—

The night, with black hands, gathers each mistake

And strokes a mystic challenge from each ache.

The night, New York, sardonic and alert,

Offers a soul to your reluctant dirt.

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