Classic Poem

By proud New York and its man-piled Matterhorns
The hard blue sky overhead and the west wind blowing,
Steam-plumes waving from sun-glittering pinnacles,
And deep street shaking to the million-river:
Manhattan, zoned with ships, the cruel
Youngest of all the world's great towns,
Thy bodice bright with many a jewel,
Imperially crowned with crowns—
Who that has known thee but shall burn
In exile till he come again
To do thy bitter will, O stern
Moon of the tides of men!