The aëry city, temple and tower, sleeps.
O'er the broad fields, around her and below,
Lies the blue waste of far unfooted snow,
And takes no shadows from her walls and keeps.
The sun, like death, upon the blank sky creeps,
With pallid disk of silver, tacit, slow—
No winds betwixt this sun and city blow—
In adamantine day the city sleeps.

I pace beside her. All is dreamy cold.
I listen, and no music answers me:
I name the lost, the lucid hills of old,
The violet banks and the melodious lea,
The virgin breasts and sky and year of gold—
Mine, ere I crossed the unreturning sea.