“The great arched walls sent echoing back the sad, indignant plaint,
The light from that fair, mournful face grew evermore more faint,
Till, fading in the darkness, light and shadow both were gone,
And I sat where crimson sunset with southern splendor shone,
Lighting the western city with a flood of harmless fire,
With a glory, quickly fading, enwreathing mast and spire;
Whence no mellow bells pealed earthward, sounding the angel’s call,
Nor Miserere drifted from roof and tower tall;
The busy craft went sailing up and down the crowded stream—
Upon my lap the poet’s book, the conjurer of my dream.