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e, And floods the wide savannas of the mind With tides that cool the fever of the day: One with the dark, companioned by the stars, We'll seek St. Philip's, nebulous and gray, Holding its throbbing beacon to the bars, A prisoned spirit vibrant in the stone That knew its empire of forgotten things. Then will the city know you for her own, And feel you meet to share her sufferings; While down a swirl of poignant memories, Herself shall find you in her silences. Once coaches waited row on shining row Before this door; and where the thirsty street Drank the deep shadow of the portico The Sunday hush was stirred by happy feet, Low greetings, and the rustle of brocade, The organ throb, and warmth of sunny eyes That flashed and smiled beneath a bonnet shade; Life with the lure of all its swift disguise. Then from the soaring lyric of the spire, Like the composite voice of all the town, The bells burst swiftly into singing fire That wrapped the building, and which showered down Bright cadences to flash along the ways Loud with the splendid gladness of the days. War took the city, and the laughter died From lips that pain had kissed. One after one All lovely things went down the sanguine tide, While death made moaning answer to the gun. Then, as a golden voice dies in the throat Of one who lives, but whose glad heart is dead, The bells were taken; and a sterner note Rang from their bronze where Lee and Jackson led. The rhythmic seasons chill and burn and chill, Cooling old angers, warming hearts again. The ancient building quickens to the thrill Of lilting feet; but only singing rain Flutters old echoes in the portico; Those who can still remember love it so. D.H. [1] See the note on the chimes at back of book. PRESENCES Despise the garish presences that flaunt The obvious possession of today, To wear with me the spectacles that haunt The optic sense with wraiths of yesterday-- These cobbled shores through which the traffic streams Have been the stage-set of successive towns, Where coffined actors postured out their dreams, And harlot Folly changed her thousand gowns. This corner-shop was Bull's Head Tavern, When names now dead on marble lived in clay; Its rooms were like a sanded cavern, W
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