Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. (1833–1908). An American Anthology, 1787–1900. 1900.
By David StarrJordan1180 Vivérols
B
There is a town called Vivérols;
I know not if ’t is near or far,
I know not what its features are,
I only know ’t is Vivérols.
By vine and moss be overgrown;
I know not if the night-owl calls
From feudal battlements of stone,
Inhabited by him alone.
Knee-deep in corn stands Vivérols;
I know not if prosperity
Has robbed its life of poesy;
That could not be in Vivérols,
They would not call it Vivérols.
The grapes grow purple in the sun;
Or down its wild untrodden crags,
Its broken cliffs and frost-bit jags,
The mountain brooks unfettered run.
A place of gaudy pomp and show,
A “Grand Etablissement des Eaux,”
Where to restore their withered lives
The roués of the city go.
No ray of happiness lets in;
Where wanders hopeless beggary
Mid scenes of sorrow, want, and sin.
That could not be in Vivérols;
There ’s life and cheer in Vivérols!
Mid vapors out from Dreamland blown;
Built up from vague remembrances,
That never yet had form in stone,—
Its castles built of cloud alone.
Through its old walls of crumbling stone
Together wander all alone,
No spot on earth could be more fair
Than ivy-covered Vivérols!
No grass be greener anywhere,
No bluer sky nor softer air
Than we should find in Vivérols.
The sun shines bright o’er Vivérols;
Green is the grass, the skies are clear;
No clouds obscure our pathway, dear;
Where love is, there is Vivérols,—
There is no other Vivérols.