Which burn’d with all the yellow crowded fires
Of shining cups that fill the fields of May:
Whereby a city fair mine eyes had heed,
Verged round with bowery close, and willows grey
Shading the silent water’s secret way,
Girdling the quiet town with cluster’d reed.
Thence rose no surge of men, or sound of strife,
But smoothly glode the even hours of life,
Told by the sweet-tongued bells in tuneful towers;
And in the streets there moved the breath of flowers,