This book of poetry. The mystic city many-gated, With monstrous columns, was your own: Herodian stones fell down and waited Two thousand years to be your throne. In the grey rocks the burning blossom Glowed terrible as the sacred blood: It was no stranger to your bosom Than bluebells of an English wood. Life is not void or stuff for scorners: We have laughed loud and kept our love, We have heard singers in tavern corners And not forgotten the birds above: We have known smiters and sons of thunder And not unworthily walked with them, We have grown wiser and lost not wonder; And we have seen Jerusalem.
