Through A Glass, Lightly

An Italian sonnet about an English city to frame your Sunday
Earth has not anything to show more fair:
Dull would he be of soul who could pass by
A sight so touching in its majesty:

 

This City now doth, like a garment, wear
The beauty of the morning: silent, bare,
Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie
Open unto the fields, and to the sky;
All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.

 

Never did sun more beautifully steep
In his first splendor, valley, rock, or hill;

 

Dear God! The very houses seem asleep;
And all that mighty heart is lying still!

 

 

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