The Crownless City
Not Florence, nor the Baian bay, I sing,
Nor sunny vine-clad slopes of southern France
Nor gardens where the Spanish maidens dance
With laughter in a white-armed starry ring,
Not unto Palestine, nor Greece, I cling,
As many with a longing backward glance, —
Through London's flowerless gloom my steps advance,
The crownless city seeks a crownless king.
Mine are the suns of morning, looming red
Through misery and smoke, till gleams of blue,
Occasional at midday, glisten through,
Across our patient care-worn foreheads shed:
Mine is the sorrow, — mine the imperial head,
The sinless locks, of London born anew.
Nor sunny vine-clad slopes of southern France
Nor gardens where the Spanish maidens dance
With laughter in a white-armed starry ring,
Not unto Palestine, nor Greece, I cling,
As many with a longing backward glance, —
Through London's flowerless gloom my steps advance,
The crownless city seeks a crownless king.
Mine are the suns of morning, looming red
Through misery and smoke, till gleams of blue,
Occasional at midday, glisten through,
Across our patient care-worn foreheads shed:
Mine is the sorrow, — mine the imperial head,
The sinless locks, of London born anew.
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