 | The Poetry of Real Life |  |
114
A CITY, AT SUNSET.
The sun is sinking, gorgeous, o'er the hill,And, with his parting smile, lights up the reek
Of the great city, rising without break,
With quiet motion gently upwards, 'till,
Touched by his rays, it seems the air to fill
With golden incense, and the heavens to seek:
An offering unto God, from many-a meek,
Pure, household altar, burning daily still!
Yes, that great city, with its thousand homes
And hearths, and gentle household fires, is
A goodly altar, such as well becomes
The God invoked—an altar built to His
Religion, and the fair Humanities
Of social Life, which there join hands and kiss!
| The Poetry of Real Life | |