In the distance the Empire City rose radiant from the mist.
"Say, Ernest, you should spout some poetry as of old. Are your lips
stricken mute, or are you still thinking of Coney Island?"
"Oh, no, the swift wind has taken it away. I am clean, I am pure. Life
has passed me. It has kissed me, but it has left no trace."
He looked upon the face of his friend. Their hands met. They felt, with
keen enjoyment, the beauty of the night, of their friendship, and of the
city beyond.
Then Ernest's lips moved softly, musically, twitching with a strange
ascetic passion that trembled in his voice as he began:
_"Huge steel-ribbed monsters rise into the air
Her Babylonian towers, while on high,
Like gilt-scaled serpents, glide the swift trains by,
Or, underfoot, creep to their secret lair.
A thousand lights are jewels in her hair,
The sea her girdle, and her crown the sky;
Her life-blood throbs, the fevered pulses fly.
Immense, defiant, breathless she stands there.
"And ever listens in the ceaseless din,
Waiting for him, her lover, who shall come,
Whose singing lips shall boldly claim their own,
And render sonant what in her was dumb,
The splendour, and the madness, and the sin,
Her dreams in iron and her thoughts of stone.
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