Poems (Stoddard)/In the City
IN THE CITY.
THE autumn morning sweetly calls to me, And autumn days and nights in patience wait;I answer not, because I am not free, Although I chose my fate.
The cold, gray mist that stains the city walls Stands silver-columned where the river glides,Or, slow dividing, on the valley falls, Where one I love abides.
The wind that trifles round my city door, Or whirls before me all the city's dust,By the sea borrows its triumphant roar, And lends its savage gust;
Or shrieking rushes where the sombre pines Hold solemn converse in the ancient vale,And while 't is dying in their dark confines Babbles their mystic tale.
Could I but climb a roof above my own, And greet grave Autumn as he walks the earthWith secret signal that would make me known, I should not feel my dearth.
Then silver mist or loud triumphant wind Might come in sad disguise and misery;I would but ponder in my secret mind How Autumn answers me.