Poetry

London.

Joaquin Miller


  • Above yon inland populace the skies
  • Are pink and mellow'd soft in rosy light.
  • The crown of earth! A halo seems to rise
  • And hang perpetual above by night,
  • And dash by day the heavens, till the sight
  • Betrays the city s presence to the wave. . .
  • You hear a hollow sound as of the might
  • Of seas; you see the march of fair and brave
  • In millions; moving, moving, moving toward—a grave.