John Myers O’Hara

ACROSS the slopes whose wooded spaces hide

The Hudson’s sweep, rising more royal than

Above the Tiber that of Hadrian,

A tomb looms domed and dim o’er dusk and tide;

All dreams of alien beauty that abide,

The memory of lands beyond the span

Of seas that sing the deeds of god and man,

May reinspire the soul on Riverside.

And now the mists are falling on the far

Wide silver of the river, and a star

Burns in the pines that crown the Palisades.

Slowly the final streak of sunlight fades,

And Claremont, with the lamps against its white,

Shines like a limpid jewel in the night.