II
DOES not the distant city cry,
As if filled with an unexpected rout,
Alleluia, shout on shout?
Nor can the city high
Exult in song enough,
Tuning to smoothness all her highways rough.
And yet the Bromian god
Hath never trod
With choir the pavements, nor each grape-haired dancer
Given to the mountain-streams a city’s answer.