When the tasks of the day that encumber lie hard on the sense and the sight,
A lorelei singing her number, The City her song of delight.
I have heard, and have come at her calling, have followed her glow in the sky,
I have come where in dirt she was sprawling and beckoning men such as I,
I have come to her creeping and crawling, her love and her laughter to buy.
She has opened her door at my coming, has opened her arms at my tread;
Around her the roses were blooming, the passionate roses of red;
Around her mad music was humming, and music the words that she said.
About me went white arms and slender—for such had an Antony died;
I gazed on her womanly splendor; I drank of her lips, and she sighed;