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 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