The Ferry

Now all the city, washed in golden air,
Swung wide into my vision, standing there;
Its multitudinous summits, heaped on high,
Lay like a broken mountain in the sky;
It stormed into my senses, like the sea,
From the blue edges of infinity
(The Sky-Outpoured that hangs above the land
Converging on a hundred feet of sand).
The river, heaving like a sleeper's breast,
Lifted the flowing ice in grey unrest:
Laborious tugs with surge-wreathed bosoms drew
A liner slowly lengthwise; two by two
The ferries passed in pairs, for vistaed miles,
From long, low docks and rows of studded piles:
And barges waded clumsily along,
And noisy whistles brayed their iron song.
Steam, like white wool, unravelled in still air.
Slant slopes or great-tiered funnels, here and there,
Peering above their low-roofed wharfage, broke
The dazzling calm with lazy drifts of smoke.
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