All day the children play along the walks,
A robin sings in a brave, green tree,
The city lifts gray temples at its marge,
But still it keeps the heart of Arcady.

Still blows a flower in the waving grass,
Lifting a face of beauty to the sun;
Still bursts the bough in joyous burgeoning—
Still comes a lover when the day is done.

Here the white moon, with magic in her train,
Stoops from the starry lanes of paradise,
And, with her ancient witchery of dreams,
Lays some new hope upon a poet's eyes.

See, on that bench beneath the drooping bough,
Did not yon grief-bowed figure lift its face?
Look how the moonlight finds him through the leaves,
Touching his brow with sudden crowns of grace!

O little park, O little land of hope,
Snatched from the world and held for God and me,
Still through thy walks the wistful cities go,
Searching the dream that yet might set them free!