1. |
2. |
1. |
2. |
3. |
4. |
5. |
6. |
7. |
3. |
1. |
2. |
3. |
4. |
5. |
6. |
7. |
8. |
9. |
10. |
11. |
12. |
13. |
14. |
15. |
16. |
17. |
18. |
19. |
20. |
21. |
22. |
23. |
24. |
25. |
26. |
27. |
28. |
29. |
30. |
31. |
4. |
1. |
2. |
3. |
4. |
5. |
6. |
7. |
8. |
9. |
10. |
11. |
12. |
13. |
14. |
15. |
16. |
17. |
1. |
2. |
3. |
4. |
1. |
1. |
2. |
3. |
4. |
5. |
1. |
2. |
3. |
4. |
5. |
6. |
7. |
2. |
1. |
2. |
3. |
1. |
2. |
3. |
3. |
THE CITY |
4. |
1. |
2. |
3. |
4. |
5. |
6. |
7. |
5. |
1. |
2. |
3. |
4. |
5. |
1. |
2. |
1. |
2. |
3. |
6. |
1. |
2. |
3. |
1. |
2. |
3. |
4. |
5. |
6. |
7. |
4. |
1. |
1. |
2. |
2. |
3. |
4. |
1. |
2. |
3. |
4. |
1. |
2. |
3. |
1. |
2. |
3. |
1. |
2. |
The Poems of Richard Watson Gilder | ||
112
THE CITY
Come, Spirit of Song! true, faithful friend of mine!Oft hast thou served me in life's warfare rough;
No knight of old found lance more keen or tough
At tourney or in dreadful battle-line:
Come, tho' they own thee not, the Muses Nine;
Strike one more blow,—the past is not enough,—
Not now for Love's sake, nor in Fate's rebuff,
Nor for Provence and all its golden wine:
But be one iron scorn for this huge town
Where love of God has turned to lust of gold,
And civic pride in private greed grows cold;
Where speculation stains the judge's gown,
And where, in new-born broods, foul beasts of prey
Ravage the treasure-house by night and day.
The Poems of Richard Watson Gilder | ||