THE TOWN

Men loved not Athens in her maiden days

More tenderly than these their tree-lined Town

Which, lacking Muses for a wider praise,

Lives in their hearts in still and sweet renown.

The market square, the wagons in the dawn,

The streets like music when their names are said,

The Sunday spire, the green, untrammelled lawn,—

These be the things on which their hearts are fed.

And one long street climbs slowly to a hill

That lifts her crosses for the Town to see

How sleep those quiet neighbours, townsmen still,

How there is peace for such as weary be...

And as they come, each like a sleepy guest,

She takes them, one by one, and gives them rest.