High up, with many a cloistered lawn,
And chapelled gallery widely spread,
Extends, flower-dressed at eve and dawn,
The happy “City of the Dead.”
There musing sit I, day by day;
I sing my psalm; I pray for thee:
“If men could love, not hate,” I say,
“How like to heaven this earth would be!”
V.
Love bound a veil above my brow;