A song of birds adown a mine's dark galleries,
A scent of roses 'mid a waste of moor and fen,
A gush of sparkling waters from the desert sands,—
So comes the snow upon the town, an alien.
VII—Nocturne
How like a warrior on the battlefield
The city sleeps, with brain awake, and eyes
That know no closing. Ere the first star dies
It rises from its slumber, and with shield
In hand, full ready for the fray,