THE PORT OF NEW YORK
This was the Promisl"4 Land, and still it is
To the persuasive suburban land agent
In bootleg roadhouses where the gin fizz
Bubbles in time to
I-I
ollywood's new love-nest pageant.
-HART CRANE
Magnificent to tourists and to tradesmen come,
Loaded with luggage, from voyage oversea,
Between shrill swoopings and the cabled air
White buildings lift a cue for praise.
Far out, upon the ocean's level rink
Where gulls are skaters, freighters and steamers,
Cunard liners, queens of the voyage,
Down on the world's curve curl one smudge of smoke
Farewell-and sink.
And now the port
Swells up to meet you. In the huge sunset,
Crowded with chimneys, terraces, grain elevators,
Ignite a million windows to the widened gaze,
A world afire-the city burning
In a towering architectural blaze.
0 stranger welcome,
Feted with fire, but longing for the land,
Turn by the rail and see, where tall she stands,
Iron and green, and crowned with liberty,
Erect upon the bay, the rigid greeting of her hand!
Descend now gangplanks to the dock. Taxi
And hotel suite awaits you, who command
Bellhops and brilliance. Actress of screen,
Chief of staff, Minister or Financier,
You come upon us in a bitter year
Of bank failures and breadlines in the public squares.
Down South Street in one-arm joints
Sawdusted, crawling with flies-or in the Doghouse
Reading the shipping news-bronzed sailors,
Tattooed with blue anchors, naked women
In a Shanghai hophouse or maybe Samarkand,
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