Classic Poem

The city's mad: through her prodigious veins
What errant, strange, eccentric humours thrill:
Day, when her cataracts of sunlight spill —
Night, golden-panelled with her window panes;
The toss of wind-blown skirts; and who can drill
Forever his fierce heart with checking reins?
Cruel and mad, my statisticians say —
Ah, but she raves in such a gallant way!

Brave madness, built for beauty and the sun —
In such a town who can be sane? Not I.
Of clashing colours all her moods are spun —
A scarlet anger and a golden cry.
This frantic town where madcap mischiefs run
They ask to take the veil, and be a nun!