And if the memorials of the dead were put up indifferently everywhere, even in the room where I

eat or sleep, I should be satisfied.

And if the corpse of any one I love, or if my own corpse, be duly rendered to powder, and poured in the sea, I shall be satisfied,

Or if it be distributed to the winds, I shall be satisfied.

City of my walks and joys !

City whom that I have lived and sung there will one day make you illustrious,

Not the pageants of you — not your shifting tableaux, 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 learned persons, or bear my share in the soiree or feast ;

Not those — but, as I pass, Manhattan ! your fre- quent and swift flash of eyes offering me love,

Offering me the response of my own — these repay me.

Lovers, continual lovers, only repay me.