Hamilton Fish Armstrong, ed. The Book of New York Verse. 1917.
The CityEdith M. Thomas
N
To greet first light from past thy towers,
That soar and dream in stainless skies,
Nor heard I first thy chime told hours:
Far, far from here my childhood’s morn—
But here was I reborn.
That tingling smites thy downward face—
That stirs the blood, that breaks the fray
Of life, in street and marketplace,
Where, wearied, none be soon outworn!
But here was I reborn.
The air of larger freedom, yet
To know the closer bond of law,
Here where Fate’s lusty blows are met,
But not the pinprick and the thorn—
Here where I was reborn!
A one pulsed world-heart first I felt;
Then, down upon thy paving stone,
In thankfulness, I could have knelt,
At one with all—of selfhood shorn—
Here where I was reborn!
Renascent life thou gavest me,
O city of my glad rebirth!
I am thy native; shut from thee
What but an exile most forlorn,
I who was here reborn!
Of this wide land—I, in my soul
(More in the gravure on my heart)
Proclaim thee greater than the whole!
I am thy patriot. Do not scorn
Thy singer here reborn.