The New England Magazine/Volume 5/Number 1/A Buried City
A BURIED CITY.
By Arthur L. Salmon.
DOWN, down, beneath the water's ebb and flow, A buried city lies with homes and towers;There, when the sun has set and winds are low, I rock and dream for hours:And softly floating on the dusky tide In listless twilight rest,I hear far chimes of buried belfries glide Along the water's breast.
At times, methinks, when from the quiet sky A cloudless moon in silver glory peers,Its streets and gabled houses meet mine eye, As in the by-gone years;The murmurings of many voices rise In solemn mystic strain,And vanished faces under brighter skies Return to smile again.
The voices of my childhood's happy days Come stealing upwards through the hush of night;And through the lonely, long-deserted ways, There streams a flood of light.But ah, it is a dream, when winds are low,— Too dear a dream to last;And mournfully the waters ebb and flow Above my buried past.