Hamilton Fish Armstrong, ed. The Book of New York Verse. 1917.
Of City FlowersShaemus OSheel
On reading certain poems in praise of New York
M
With present praise thine unrevealèd soul!
Surely with scorn thou hear’st their raptures roll,
Nor will to their small minds thy mind unlock.
Not with such clamoring casuists can I flock;
Black witch who ere my birth my future stole,
With fury that I care not to control
I hate thee and the children of thy stock!
And in return thy uncouth savage love,
O lewd amorphous mystery, I feel!
For when at last thy loftiest towers are hurled
Hell-ward, of all who mourn thy ruins above,
My grief alone, thou knowest, will be real.