Classic Poem

The white metropolis of winter rose,
In icy splendor over drift and dune,
Midway from setting sun to rising moon,
On frosty skies of gleams and afterglows.
An airy place, a Venice of the snows,
With towers of crystal arabesque and rune,
And shimmering columns by many a frore lagoon,
She slumbered in imperial repose.

So still, so inland from the booming seas,
So clear, so far from battle-smoke or fen,
So cold, beyond all pestilence and fire —
A city with its own eternities,
Where hate nor love might enter in again,
Nor human cry, nor sorrow, nor desire.