London.
Joaquin Miller
bove 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.