BRUGES. 1921
I saw Bruges in her latter watch, serene
And conscious of the golden hours gone,
I saw Bruges waiting on her latter dawn
Abiding her eclipse with stately mien;
She bows above the dark streets like a queen
In august shadows, towering and withdrawn,
And speaks of glory in the carillons,
Routing oblivion with their antique pæan.
Her heartbeat trembles in the very flint,
The time-washed stones her inner impulse own,
The star-cleansed pinnacles are lucent grown
Touched to still, unconsuming fire by dint
Of time's slow conflagration that transmutes
To mist and flame the gross earth of the brutes.
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