Richard Watson Gilder

THIS is the end of town I love the best.

O, lovely the hour of light from the burning west—

Of light that lingers and fades in the shadowy square

Where the solemn fountain lifts a shaft in the air

To catch the skyey colours, and fling them down

In a wild-wood torrent that drowns the noise of the town.

And lovely the hour of the still and dreamy night

When, lifted against the blue, stands the arch of white

With one clear planet above; and the sickle moon,

In curve reversed from the arch’s marble round,

Silvers the sapphire sky. Now soon, ah, soon,

Shall the city square be turned to holy ground,

Through the light of the moon and the stars and the glowing flower,—

The Cross of Light,—that looms from the sacred tower.