And New York is the most beautiful city in the world? It is not

Hear now the fiery words of Ezra Pound, prophet of modern verse, who declared of America’s great metropolis: “And New York is the most beautiful city in the world? It is not far from it. No urban night is like the night there… Squares after squares of flame, set up and cut into the aether. Here is our poetry, for we have pulled down the stars to our will.” In these words he captures both awe and ambition—the wonder of human achievement, and the daring of mankind to command even the heavens.

For when Pound speaks of squares of flame, he describes the endless windows of Manhattan’s towers, each alight in the darkness, forming a tapestry of human fire. Unlike the scattered stars of nature, these are the deliberate stars of man—arranged, ordered, and multiplied, set like jewels upon the black cloth of night. They are not born of heaven, but of labor, invention, and will. Thus, New York becomes a second cosmos, a city whose lights rival the constellations themselves.

This is the poetry of modernity. Where once poets sang of Olympus or the Nile, Pound sees art in the machine, beauty in the skyscraper, divinity in electricity. To him, the city at night is not mere utility, but a vision of mankind’s striving spirit, its refusal to be bound by the dark. He declares: here is our poetry—not written in meter, but in steel and glass, in light drawn down from the heavens to burn upon the earth.

History bears witness to such transformations. When the Eiffel Tower was first raised in Paris, many called it an abomination. But at night, when it burned with electric flame, it became a symbol of human aspiration. So too did the Brooklyn Bridge, gleaming across the East River, stand as both engineering and poem. Each was proof that humanity could create not only shelter, but spectacle—that the works of our hands could stand beside the works of the cosmos.

And yet, in Pound’s vision there is also a shadow. To pull down the stars to our will is an act of triumph, but also of hubris. For what man seizes from heaven, he must wield with reverence, lest pride destroy what awe created. History offers warning: when Rome lit its coliseums with flame to dazzle its citizens, glory soon turned to decadence, and decadence to ruin. Thus, the lights of New York may be poetry, but they also demand humility, a remembrance that beauty must serve the soul and not merely the ego.

Still, the lesson is enduring: greatness is not only in nature, but in the creations of humankind. To look upon New York’s night is to see the collective effort of millions—the mason, the electrician, the architect, the poet—all contributing to a vision that transcends the individual. This is the essence of civilization: to create together something so vast that it seems to rival the stars.

O seekers, take this wisdom into your lives: do not look only to the sky for wonder, but also to the works of your hands. Build not only for survival, but for beauty. Let your labor be infused with poetry, your daily acts woven into something larger than yourself. And when you walk through the cities of men, do not see only stone and light—see the striving of the human soul, forever reaching upward.

Thus, Ezra Pound’s words remain a song of modern triumph: in New York, in the brilliance of its nights, humanity has indeed written a new poetry. We have dared to command the darkness, to pull down the stars, and to kindle them anew upon the earth. And in this, we glimpse not only what we are, but what we might yet become—creatures of both dust and light, ever striving to turn life itself into verse.