But he looked upon the city every side,
Far and wide,
All the mountains topped with temples, all the glades
Colonnades,
All the causeys, bridges, aqueducts,—­and then,
All the men! 
When I do come, she will speak not, she will stand,
Either hand
On my shoulder, give her eyes the first embrace
Of my face,
Ere we rush, ere we extinguish sight and speech
Each on each.

In one year they sent a million fighters forth
South and North,
And they built their gods a brazen pillar high
As the sky,
Yet reserved a thousand chariots in full force—­
Gold, of course. 
O heart!  O blood that freezes, blood that burns! 
Earth’s returns
For whole centuries of folly, noise, and sin! 
Shut them in,
With their triumphs and their glories and the rest! 
Love is best.

A GRAMMARIAN’S FUNERAL

SHORTLY AFTER THE REVIVAL OF LEARNING IN EUROPE

     Let us begin and carry up this corpse,
       Singing together. 
     Leave we the common crofts, the vulgar thorpes,
       Each in its tether,
     Sleeping safe in the bosom of the plain,
       Cared-for till cock-crow: 
     Look out if yonder be not day again
       Rimming the rock-row! 
     That’s the appropriate country; there, man’s thought,
       Rarer, intenser,
     Self-gathered for an outbreak, as it ought,
       Chafes in the censer. 
     Leave we the unlettered plain its herd and crop;
       Seek we sepulture
     On a tall mountain, citied to the top,
       Crowded with culture! 
     All the peaks soar, but one the rest excels: 
       Clouds overcome it;
     No, yonder sparkle is the citadel’s
       Circling its summit. 
     Thither our path lies; wind we up the heights! 
       Wait ye the warning? 
     Our low life was the level’s and the night’s: 
       He’s for the morning. 
     Step to a tune, square chests, erect each head,
       ’Ware the beholders! 
     This is our master, famous, calm, and dead,
       Borne on our shoulders.

     Sleep, crop and herd! sleep, darkling thorpe and croft,
       Safe from the weather! 
     He whom we convoy to his grave aloft,
       Singing together,
     He was a man born with thy face and throat,
       Lyric Apollo! 
     Long he lived nameless:  how should spring take note
       Winter would follow? 
     Till lo, the little touch, and youth was gone! 
       Cramped and diminished,
     Moaned he, “New measures, other feet anon! 
       My dance is finished”? 
     No, that’s the world’s way:  (keep the mountain side,
       Make for the city!)
     He knew the signal, and stepped on with pride
       Over men’s pity;
     Left play for work, and grappled with the world
       Bent on escaping: 
     “What’s in the scroll,” quoth he, “thou keepest