A SONG OF THE LITTLE CITY
by: Wilfred Rowland Childe
(1890-1952)
- T intervals
of tunes
- And under lonely towers,
- Where silences of noons
- Cover their secret flowers,
- In places no one knows,
- Where winding ways go down,
- In the dim heart of a rose,
- I find the Little Town.
-
- When my soul wearieth
- Of cities proud and great,
- Whose skies are dark as death,
- But gold is in their gate:
- When my soul sorry is
- For ships of great renown,
- And rich mens palaces,
- I seek the Little Town.
-
- Upon a hill it stands,
- Built up with quiet walls,
- Guarding inviolate lands,
- A place of festivals,
- A place of happy bells,
- Where comes no earthly one,
- Beyond the heavens and hells,
- Between the moon and sun.
-
- Between the moon and sun,
- Far, far beyond the stars,
- Where comes not any one,
- Nor roll the great worlds cars,
- With an angel all day through,
- That wears a golden crown,
- And is robed in red and blue,
- I find the Little Town.
-
- Fountains are playing there,
- And children dance all day,
- Who are far lovelier
- Than any fabled fay,
- And in their festivals
- Far, far away behold,
- From the high carven walls,
- Dim mountains made of gold.
-
- And high above it all,
- With arches rich and fine,
- A minster towering tall
- Proclaims the place divine:
- Where none to veil Him be,
- And the birds of Eden sing,
- I find the lord of me,
- The Little Citys King.
"The Holy of Holies" is
reprinted from The Oxford Book of English Mystical Verse.
Ed. Nicholson & Lee. Oxford: The Clarendon Press, 1917. |
MORE POEMS BY WILFRED ROWLAND CHILDE |
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