Forget six counties overhung with smoke, Forget the snorting steam and piston stroke, Forget the spreading of the hideous town; Think rather of the pack-horse on the down,
And dream of London, small, and white, and clean, The clear Thames bordered by its gardens green; Think, that below bridge the green lapping waves Smite some few keels that bear Levantine staves,
Cut from the yew wood on the burnt-up hill, And pointed jars that Greek hands toiled to fill, And treasured scanty spice from some far sea, Florence gold cloth, and Ypres napery,
And cloth of Bruges, and hogsheads of Guienne; While nigh the thronged wharf Geoffrey Chaucer's pen Moves over bills of lading — mid such times Shall dwell the hollow puppets of my rhymes.
A nameless city in a distant sea, White as the changing walls of faerie, Thronged with much people clad in ancient guise I now am fain to set before your eyes;
There, leave the clear green water and the quays, And pass betwixt its marble palaces, Until ye come unto the chiefest square; A bubbling conduit is set midmost there,
And round about it now the maidens throng, With jest and laughter, and sweet broken song, Making but light of labour new begun While in their vessels gleams the morning sun.
On one side of the square a temple stands, Wherein the gods worshipped in ancient lands Still have their altars, a great market-place Upon two other sides fills all the space,
And thence the busy hum of men comes forth; But on the cold side looking toward the north A pillared council-house may you behold, Within whose porch are images of gold,
Gods of the nations who dwelt anciently About the borders of the Grecian sea. Pass now between them, push the brazen door, And standing on the polished marble floor
Leave all the noises of the square behind; Most calm that reverent chamber shall ye find, Silent at first, but for the noise you made When on the brazen door your hand you laid
To shut it after you — but now behold The city rulers on their thrones of gold, Clad in most fair attire, and in their hands Long carven silver-banded ebony wands;
Then from the dais drop your eyes and see Soldiers and peasants standing reverently Before those elders, round a little band Who bear such arms as guard the English land,
But battered, rent, and rusted sore, and they, The men themselves, are shrivelled, bent, and grey; And as they lean with pain upon their spears Their brows seem furrowed deep with more than years;
For sorrow dulls their heavy sunken eyes, Bent are they less with time than miseries. Pondering on them the city grey-beards gaze Through kindly eyes, midst thoughts of other days,
And pity for poor souls, and vague regret For all the things that might have happened yet, Until, their wonder gathering to a head, The wisest man, who long that land has led,
Breaks the deep silence, unto whom again A wanderer answers. Slowly as in pain, And with a hollow voice as from a tomb At first he tells the story of his doom,
But as it grows and once more hopes and fears, Both measureless, are ringing round his ears, His eyes grow bright, his seeming days decrease, For grief once told brings somewhat back of peace.
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