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From: Weitze W. <mo...@he...> - 2009-12-30 09:52:04
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River On the outer edge of space, Where the body comes not ever, But the absent dream hath place, Stands a city, tall and quiet, And its air is sweet and dim; Never sound of grief or riot Makes it mad, or makes it grim. And the tender skies thereover Neither sun, nor star, behold-- Only dusk it hath for cover,-- But a glamour soft with gold, Through a mist of dreamier essence Than the dew of twilight, smiles On strange shafts and domes and crescents, Lifting into eerie piles. In its courts and hallowed places Dreams of distant worlds arise, Shadows of transfigured faces, Glimpses of immortal eyes, Echoes of serenest pleasure, Notes of perfect speech that fall, Through an air of endless leisure, Marvellously musical. And I wander there at even, Sometimes when my heart is clear, When a wider round of heaven And a vaster world are near, When from many a shadow steeple Sounds of dreamy bells begin, And I love the gentle people That my spirit finds therein. Men of a diviner making Than the sons of pride and strife, Quick with love and pity, breaking From a knowledge old as life; Women of a spiritual rareness, Whom old passion and old woe Moulded to a slenderer fairness Than the dearest shapes we know. In |