Classic Poem

The heart is a city teeming with life —
Through all its gay avenues, rife
With gladness
And innocent madness,
Bright beings are passing along,
Too fleeting and fair for the eye to behold,
While something of Paradise sweetens their song,
They are gliding away with their wild gushing ditty,
Out of the city,
Out of the beautiful gates of gold!
Through gates that are ringing
While to and fro swinging,
Swinging and ringing ceaselessly,
Like delicate hands that are clapped in glee,
Beautiful hands of infancy!

The heart is a city — and gay are the feet
That dance along
To the joyous beat
Of the timbrel that giveth a pulse to song.
Bright creatures enwreathed
With flowers and mirth,
Fair maidens bequeathed
With the glory of earth
Sweep through the long street, and singing await,
A moment await at the wonderful gate;
Every second of time there comes to depart
Some form that no more shall revisit the heart!
They are gliding away and breathing farewell —
How swiftly they pass
Through the gates of brass,
Through gates that are ringing
While to and fro swinging.
And making deep sounds, like the half-stifled swell
Of the far-away ring of a gay marriage bell!
The heart is a city with splendour bedight,
Where tread martial armies arrayed for the fight,
Under banner-hung arches,
To war-kindling marches,
To the fife and the rattle
Of drums, with gay colours unfurled,
On, eager for battle,
To smite their bright spears on the spears of the world!
Through noontime, through midnight, list, and thou'lt hear
The gates swing in front, then clang in the rear.
Like a bright river flowing,
The war host is going,
And like to that river,
Returning, ah never!
Through daylight and darkness low thunder is heard
From the city that flings
Her iron-wrought wings,
Flapping the air like the wings of a bird!

The heart is a city — how sadly and slow,
To and fro,
Covered with rust, the solemn gates go!
With meek folded palms,
With heads bending lowly,
Strange beings pass slowly,
Through the dull avenues chanting their psalms;
Sighing and mourning, they follow the dead
Out of the gates that fall heavy as lead —
Passing, how sadly, with echoless tread,
The last one is fled!
No more to be opened, the gates softly close,
And shut in a stranger who loves the repose;
With no sigh for the past, with no countenance of pity,
He spreads his black flag o'er the desolate city!