I will not toy with it nor bend an inch. 
Deep in the secret chambers of my heart 
I muse my life-long hate, and without flinch 
I 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.