In New York there is height upon height standing high,
As the might of man’s work carves its mark on the sky,
And the heaven of Hell is more gloriously strong
Than the heaven of ghosts where no thinkers belong,
For the grasp of man’s mind of reality real
Is a guide to his goal of an earthly ideal,
Raising dust, stirring rock, merging nature’s dull things
Into signs of man’s spirit—his working-jet wings.
They don’t move, but within them, filling floor after floor,
Are the business creators, the men we adore,
Whose bright thoughts and quick energy give wheels down below
A direction and purpose, assured where they go
In delivering beautiful goods to their ends,
And fair singers to operas, their friends to their friends,
And the choir of business rings everywhere bold
Through the souls of the workers who earn what they hold.

In the depth of the street, in the shadow of heights,
Spins a halo of metal reflecting delights
Of its admiration and worship of they
Who are heroes triumphant and angels of day—
The calm players with railroads and masters of mines
And proud lenders of dough to inventor’s designs,
The grand risk-takers that art able to see
That ability gushes ‘mong men who are free,
And so find it and prize it and foster it more
That a man in his tower may rise floor to floor,
That the city may prosper and everyone fly
And so carve out their joy in high marks on the sky!
Yea, the world is man’s heaven, the heaven man-made,
And the wings of his soul is a mind unafraid.