I turn unto the demiurgic nights
Of cruel, male fecundity;
I turn amid creative, squandering wights
Exultant where the cities be.

The spreading cities feel my anxious passion
In penetration 'gainst their heart,
Forming the letters that at last shall fashion
The word of Song apart.

The city gloats upon its silence dire,—
And shall I then be silent,—no!—
For Destiny would of me song require,
Bidding the city hearken low!

For this I brave the brows of its disdain,
Persistent, in my sorrow strong,
Faithful unto mankind amid my pain,
Till mine shall be his song!