THE WHITE CITY
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will not toy with it nor bend an inch.Deep in the secret chambers of my heartI muse my life-long hate, and without flinchI bear it nobly as I live my part.My being would be a skeleton, a shell,If this dark Passion that fills my every mood,And makes my heaven in the white world’s hell,Did not forever feed me vital blood.I see the mighty city through a mist--The strident trains that speed the goaded mass,The poles and spires and towers vapor-kissed,The fortressed port through which the great ships pass,The tides, the wharves, the dens I contemplate,Are sweet like wanton loves because I hate.
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