THE OLD CITY 

 Ancient city, down thy street Minstrels make their music sweet; Sound of bells is on the air, Fountains sing in every square, Where, from dawn to shut of day, Maidens walk and children play; And at night, when all are gone, The waters in the dark sing on, Till the moonrise and the breeze Whiten the horse-chestnut trees. Cool thou liest, leisured, slow, On the plains of long ago, All unvexed of fretful trades Through thy rich and dim arcades, Overlooking lands below Terraced to thy green plateau. 

 Dear old city, it is long Since I heard thy minstrels' song, Since I heard thy church-bells deep, Since I watched thy fountains leap. Yet, whichever way I turn, Still I see the sunset burn At the ending of the street, Where the chestnut branches meet; Where, between the gay bazaars, Maidens walk with eyes like stars, And the slippered merchants go On the pavements to and fro. Upland winds blow through my sleep, Moonrise glimmers, waters leap, Till, awaking, thou dost seem Like a city of a dream,— Like a city of the air, Builded high, aloof and fair,— Such as childhood used to know On the plains of long ago. 

 

 

   AMETHYSTS 

 Not the green eaves of our young woods alone Shelter new violets, by the spring rains kissed; In the hard quartz, by some old April sown, Blossoms Time's flower, the steadfast amethyst. 

Shelter new violets, by the spring rains kissed;

Blossoms Time's flower, the steadfast amethyst.

 "Here's pansies, they're for thoughts"—weak thoughts though fair; June sees their opening, June their swift decay. But those stone bourgeons stand for thoughts more rare, Whose patient crystals colored day by day. 

June sees their opening, June their swift decay.

Whose patient crystals colored day by day.

 Might I so cut my flowers within the rock, And prison there their sweet escaping breath; Their petals then the winter's frost should mock, And only Time's slow chisel work their death. 

And prison there their sweet escaping breath;

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