Classic Poem

Call it a city if you will,
But it's a world to me;
Upon my heart, the words, New York,
Are etched indelibly.

Let other poets chant the spring,
White waves and flaming flowers;
I cannot paint the hills and seas,
Knowing but streets and towers.

I need no other wonderland
To wake my lyric string;
When I but lift my window-shade,
New York begins to sing!