I Stood, one Sunday morning,
Before a large church door,
The congregation gathered,
And carriages a score,—
From one out stepped a lady
I oft had seen before.
Her hand was on a prayer-book,
And held a vinaigrette;
The sign of man’s redemption
Clear on the book was set,—
But above the cross there glistened...
Proud and lowly, beggar and lord,
Over the bridge they go;
Rags and velvet, fetter and sword,
Poverty, pomp, and woe.
Laughing, weeping, hurrying ever,
Hour by hour they crowd along,
While, below, the mighty river
Sings them all a mocking song,
Hurry along, sorrow and song,
All is vanity ’neath the...
Earth has not anything to show more fair;
Dull would he be of soul who could pass by
A sight so touching in its majesty:
This city now doth, like a garment, wear
The beauty of the morning; silent, bare,
Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie
Open unto the fields, and to the sky,
All bright and glittering in the smokeless air....
Athwart the sky a lowly sigh
From west to east the sweet wind carried;
The sun stood still on Primrose Hill;
His light in all the city tarried:
The clouds on viewless columns bloomed
Like smouldering lilies unconsumed.
“O sweetheart, see! how shadowy,
Of some occult magician’s rearing,
Or swung in space of heaven’s grace...
