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City Poems

Table of Contents

  1. In the Crowd by Sir Charles George Douglas Roberts
  2. A Busy Street by Annette Wynne
  3. Night in a Down-town Street by Sir Charles George Douglas Roberts
  4. Portland by Elijah Kellogg
  5. Postmen by Annette Wynne
  6. Genoa by William Gibson

  1. In the Crowd

    by Sir Charles George Douglas Roberts

    I walk the city square with thee.
    The night is loud; the pavements roar.
    Their eddying mirth and misery
    Encircle thee and me.

    The street is full of lights and cries.
    The crowd but brings thee close to me.
    I only hear thy low replies;
    I only see thine eyes.

  2. A Busy Street

    by Annette Wynne

    All up and down the busy street
    The people pass with eager feet—
    They must have pleasant things to do
    They hurry so the long day through.

    All day long they pass me by;
    They must have better things than I
    At home or where they want to go—
    And that is why they hurry so.

  3. Night in a Down-town Street

    by Sir Charles George Douglas Roberts

    Not in the eyed, expectant gloom,
    Where soaring peaks repose
    And incommunicable space
    Companions with the snows;

    Not in the glimmering dusk that crawls
    Upon the clouded sea,
    Where bourneless wave on bourneless wave
    Complains continually;

    Not in the palpable dark of woods
    Where groping hands clutch fear,
    Does Night her deeps of solitude
    Reveal unveiled as here.

    The street is a grim canon carved
    In the eternal stone,
    That knows no more the rushing stream
    It anciently has known.

    The emptying tide of life has drained
    The iron channel dry.
    Strange winds from the forgotten day
    Draw down, and dream, and sigh.

    The narrow heaven, the desolate moon
    Made wan with endless years,
    Seem less immeasurably remote
    Than laughter, love, or tears.

  4. Portland

    by Elijah Kellogg

    Still may I love, beloved of thee,
    My own fair city of the sea!
    Where moulders back to kindred dust
    The mother who my childhood nurst,
    And strove, with ill-requited toil,
    To till a rough, ungrateful soil;
    Yet kindly spired by Heaven to know
    That Faith's reward is sure, though slow,
    And see the prophet's mantle grace
    The rudest scion of her race.

    And while around thy seaward shore
    The Atlantic doth its surges pour,
    (Those verdant isles, thy bosom-gems,)
    May Temples be thy diadems;
    Spire after spire in beauty rise,
    Still pointing upward to the skies
    Unwritten sermons, and rebukes of love,
    To point thy toiling throngs to worlds above.

  5. Postmen

    by Annette Wynne

    Some postmen sit inside all day,
    Giving lovely things away,
    Packages and bundles tied
    With the best of things inside,
    And letters, too, all clean and white
    They hand to you with great delight;
    They like to sit there all the day
    And give the pleasant things away.
    But other postmen walk outside
    Along the city far and wide;
    They take the bundles that they give
    And letters, too, out where you live;
    They do not mind the walk at all,
    They're pretty strong, and glad and tall;
    Such pleasant things some people do,
    They must be happy all day through.

  6. Genoa

    by William Gibson

    Gently, as roses die, the day declines;
    On the charmed air there is a hush the while;
    And delicate are the twilight-tints that smile
    Upon the summits of the Apennines.
    The moon is up; and o'er the warm wave shines
    A faery bridge of light, whose beams beguile
    The fancy to some far and fortunate isle,
    Which love in solitude unlonely shrines.
    The blue night of Italian summer glooms
    Around us; over the crystalline swell
    I gaze on Genoa's spires and palace-domes:
    City of cities, the superb, farewell!
    The beautiful, in nature's bloom, is thine;
    And Art hath made it deathless and divine!

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