From
Leaves of Grass, by
Walt Whitman:
City of
orgies, walks and joys,
City whom that I have lived and sung in your midst will one
day make you
illustrious,
Not the
pageants of you, not your shifting
tableaus, your
spectacles, repay me,
Not the interminable rows of your houses, nor the ships at
the
wharves,
Nor the processions in the streets, nor the bright windows
with goods in them,
Nor to converse with learn'd persons, or bear my share in the
soiree or
feast;
Not those, but as I pass O
Manhattan, your frequent and
swift flash of eyes offering me love,
Offering response to my own — these repay me,
Lovers, continual lovers, only repay me.