Myra's eyes were suffused with tears.
"The common life—the life of people—the daily toil—the pangs and the struggles. I'm hungry for it all!"
He could have kissed her for the words.
"We'll do, Myra," he cried, "we'll do. Do you know what I see this morning?"
"What?"
"A new city! My old city, but all new."
"It's you that is new, Joe."
"And that's why I see the new city—a vision I shall see until some larger vision replaces it. Shall I tell you about it?"
"Tell me."
"It is the city of five million comrades. They toil all day with one another; they create all of beauty and use that men may need; they exchange these things with each other; they go home at night to gardens and simple houses, they find happy women there and sunburnt, laughing children. Their evenings are given over to the best play—play with others, play with masses, or play at home. They have time for study, time for art, yet time for one another. Each loosens in himself and gives to the world his sublime possibilities. A city of toiling comrades, of sparkling homes, of wondrous art, and joyous festival. That is the city I see before me!" He paused. "And to the coming of that city I dedicate my life."