La Rue de la Montagne Sainte-Genevieve

I have seen an old street weeping— Narrow, dark, ascending; Water o’er the spires Of a church descending; The church thrice veiled—in rain, In the shadow of the years, In the grace of old design; Dim dwellings, blind with tears, Rotting either side The winding passage way, To where the river crosses Weeping, under gray And limpid heavens weeping. Gardens I have seen Through archèd doors, whose gratings Ever cry the keen Dim melodies of lace Long used and rare, gardens With an old-time grace Vibrating, dimly trembling In the music of the rain. Roses I have seen drip a faint Perfume, and lilacs train A quivering loveliness From door to archèd door, Passing by in flower carts; While waters ever pour O’er the white stones of the fountain, Melting icily away Half way up the mountain; Where to mingle tears with tears, Their clothes misshapen, sobbing, Two or three old women, In wooden sabots hobbling, Meet to fill their pitchers, From the stream of water leaping Through the lips, a long time parted, Of a face grotesquely weeping— A carven face forever weeping.