The Winged Horse

Still at our door that stringent hoof,
That rataplan upon our roof;
Our feverish little tower of Babel
Cannot deny the golden stable;
Our streets that roar with a black surf
Glitter beneath him like a turf—
That stallion's silver plume, that stride
That eyeball with a fire inside
That nostril like a garnet glowing,
That moon blazed on his front and blowing
Silver between his eyes and on
That back, the Lord Bellerophon!
How burns his beauty that can speak
Still wondrously, though not in Greek,
And under alien walls devise
A new Olympian enterprise,
The while his heart maintains her state
Most fluid, most affectionate.
Most furious in the pursuit
Of this our city's fiery fruit,
The iron syrup and the sweet
Sick distillation of the street:
For out of steel and stone we brew
A nectar Homer never knew;
And out of sweat and blood and bones
We build new gods for newer thrones!