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Manhattan

At least they reach toward the skies, Dumb flint and stone and glass And granite spires From sunless depths and dark foundations In driven concrete chasms Built for wide horizons And the topmost towers of the sun. Golden visions of the heavens From straining sinew and the sweated hour, Despair and hope and toil, Each inch a dedication To man's immortal hand and heart Singing homage in the dust.