I have surged with the morning throng down the gulf of the Great White Way That gashes thy granite length from the towers of sleep to the Bay When the West rolls in with a rush and the North comes down with a roar And the tramp of the Island men is loud on thy island shore. Shoulder to shoulder they come from the loins of a hundred lands, The men with the New World brains and the men with the Old World hands, And the vision is bright on the sky of the City to be And the joy of the morning is there and the thrill of the sea. As a surf is the sound of thy labor, O City; as wine Is the hum of thy human streets filled with faces divine When from building on populous building thy power unfurled Leaps down to the sea and off through the air to the ends of the world. I have loafed round the banging wharves where the foreign freighters lie; I have watched the bridge-weaving shuttles pass over the sky; I have felt the quick leap of thy drills where the builders of Rome Swing the rock from the hole in the ground for the walls of thy home; I have heard far down through the canyons the clamor and yell When the brokers are out with their signs and the Curb is a hell; I have sounded thy chattering markets; I have watched the noon hour Come over thy toiling miles with a slack of thy terrible power When story on story lets out on the pavement below And thy streets are a-swarm with the Jew and the parks overflow. Far-famed is the rustling hour when the shoppers flow in, For miles thy walks are abloom and the monstrous fairs begin, And the aisles of the merchants are crowded, and dark-faced boys, Are out on the corners with flowers, and fakirs are there with their toys. I have paused with the passing throng where the hoyden sea wind whirls And whisks round the tall gray towers the skirts of the laughing girls; I have watched round the wonder of windows the beauty and grace; I have breasted the streaming throngs and have come to the quiet place Of the Fountain, and weary with tramping have lounged on the benches there With the homeless man of the streets, the man with the unkempt hair; Have given him soul for soul as we watched far up in the skies The just-seen worker wave and the slab of marble rise To its place on the fortieth story. Still lit by the sun Is the face of the golden clock when the toil of the day is done. Then the long gray miles are a-murmur and the builders come down from the sky, And Speed throws her myriad shuttles and the ambulance hurries by, And the foam of the evening papers is white on the living sea, And the deep defiles are black with men as far as the eye can see, And loaded trains rush north and west from thy mighty central heart, And the rivers foam and the bridges sag till their strong steel cables start,