The City From the Hills
There lies our city folded in the mist,
Like a great meadow in an early morn
Flinging her spears of grass up through white films,
Each with its thousand thousand tinted globes.
Above us such an air as poets dream,
The clean and vast wing-winnowed clime of Heaven.
Each of her streets is closed with shining Alps,
Like Heaven at the end of long plain lives.
Arnold Wall, 1906