city of hurried and sparkling waters

Today was not a good day. I didn't get enough sleep last night, and then I got some bad news, and I was (am) anxious and depressed and exhausted and hormonal, and worryingly full, this week, of recriminations and self-doubt.

On the other hand, all the trees in New York City are blooming, and today was a perfect spring day, all flowers and clear blue skies. My afternoon class up at Fordham was unusually excellent, and on the drive back we took the northern route, picking up the Hudson Parkway in the Bronx and crossing into Manhattan at the very top, and the drive along the Hudson in the evening light, watching the sun just start to set over the river, was almost unbearably beautiful. There are days when I love this city passionately; and you know, nobody loves this city quite so much as Walt Whitman.

I was asking for something specific and perfect for my city,
Whereupon, lo! upsprang the aboriginal name!

Now I see what there is in a name, a word, liquid, sane, unruly, musical, self-sufficient;
I see that the word of my city is that word up there,
Because I see that word nested in nests of water-bays, superb, with tall and wonderful spires,
Rich, hemm’d thick all around with sailships and steamships—an island sixteen miles long, solid-founded,
Numberless crowded streets—high growths of iron, slender, strong, light, splendidly uprising toward clear skies;
Tide swift and ample, well-loved by me, toward sundown,
The flowing sea-currents, the little islands, larger adjoining islands, the heights, the villas,
The countless masts, the white shore-steamers, the lighters, the ferry-boats, the black sea-steamers well-model’d;
The down-town streets, the jobbers’ houses of business—the houses of business of the ship-merchants, and money-brokers—the river-streets;
Immigrants arriving, fifteen or twenty thousand in a week;
The carts hauling goods—the manly race of drivers of horses—the brown-faced sailors;
The summer air, the bright sun shining, and the sailing clouds aloft;
The winter snows, the sleigh-bells—the broken ice in the river, passing along, up or down, with the flood tide or ebb-tide;
The mechanics of the city, the masters, well-form’d, beautiful-faced, looking you straight in the eyes;
Trottoirs throng’d—vehicles—Broadway—the women—the shops and shows,
The parades, processions, bugles playing, flags flying, drums beating;
A million people—manners free and superb—open voices—hospitality—the most courageous and friendly young men;
The free city! no slaves! no owners of slaves!
The beautiful city, the city of hurried and sparkling waters! the city of spires and masts!
The city nested in bays! my city!
The city of such women, I am mad to be with them! I will return after death to be with them!
The city of such young men, I swear I cannot live happy, without I often go talk, walk, eat, drink, sleep, with them!

—Walt Whitman (1819–1892), "Mannahatta" from Leaves of Grass, 1900; first published in 1860.

You sleep with those young men, Uncle Walt! In all honesty this is not really my favorite Walt Whitman poem -- although in general, and somewhat to my own shame, I run a little hot and cold on Whitman -- but I did not really get to sing the praises of Manhattan in poetry, last year, and I wanted to make up for that lack this time around.