Hamilton Fish Armstrong, ed. The Book of New York Verse. 1917.
A Sweetheart: Thompson StreetSamuel McCoy
Q
Stretches her slender limbs
From the great Arch of Triumph, on—
On, where the distance dims
Her granite draperies;
The magic, sunset-smitten walls
That veil her marble knees;
Superb, bare, unashamed,
Yielding her beauty scornfully
To worshippers unnamed.
A daughter of the South:
Squalid, immeasurably mean,—
But oh! her hot, sweet mouth!
Hot with life’s wildest blood;
Her black shawl on her black, black hair,
Her brown feet stained with mud;
A new babe at her breast;
A singer at a wine-shop door,
(Her lover unconfessed).
Now alien melodies:
She smiles, she cannot quite forget
The mother over-seas.
Mine, mine!… Who may I be?
Have I betrayed her from her home?
I am called Liberty!