Leaves of Grass, by Walt Whitman

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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 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 win-
dows, 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 fre-
quent and swift flash of eyes offering me love,

Offering response to my own—these repay me;

Lovers, continual lovers, only repay me.

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