Here by the ample river’s argent sweep, <br />Bosomed in tilth and vintage to her walls, <br />A tower-crowned Cybele in armoured sleep <br />The city lies, fat plenty in her halls, <br />With calm parochial spires that hold in fee <br />The friendly gables clustered at their base, <br />And, equipoised o’er tower and market-place, <br />The Gothic minister’s winged immensity; <br />And in that narrow burgh, with equal mood, <br />Two placid hearts, to all life’s good resigned, <br />Might, from the altar to the lych-gate, find <br />Long years of peace and dreamless plenitude.<br /><br />Edith Wharton<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/la-vierge-au-donateur/
