Edith M. Thomas

In absence, by one who returns no more

ART thou there, between thy rivers,

With thy towered sea front bold—

There, between the dawn and sunset,

Lit with amethyst or gold?

Art thou there, enchanted island

I shall never more behold?

Dost thou loom, in mystic beauty,

Through the hazy, summer light,

Like the vision, seen in Patmos,

Of the city in the height?

Often times, a grey armada,

Anchored midst thy waters bright?

Art thou filled with joyous tumults

That from far thy travellers hail?

Do thy clangors grow a music—

Throbbing pave and vibrant rail?

Still thy masted lights keep vigil,

While thy pleasures never fail?

Art thou there, my haven city,

Open armed to each oppressed?

Art thou there, with all thy strangers

Thou hast taken to thy breast—

Latin, Slav, and tawny alien

From an East beyond the West?

Art thou there, midst all abundance,

From the wide world’s gardens shed—

Thou, with palace dwellers—toilers—

Strugglers earning scanty bread?

Palace dwellers, toilers, beggars,

But thy streets they still may tread!

Oh, the echoes of thy pavements

Where my feet no more shall be!

Art thou there, enchanted island—

Thou mine eyes no more shall see?

Yet I know, past peradventure,

Loosed, my soul shall wing to thee!