By nights when the yellow salamanders of the El bend all one way and the cold rain runs with the red-lit rain. By the way the city's million wires are burdened only with lightest snow ; and the old year yet lighter upon them. When chairs are stacked and glasses are turned and arc lamps are all dimmed. By days when the wind bangs alley gates ajar and the sun goes by on the wind. By nights when the moon is an only child above the measured thunder of the cars, you may know Chicago's heart at last.
City on the Make