In The City

The autumn morning sweetly calls to me,
  And autumn days and nights in patience wait;
I answer not, because I am not free,
    Although I chose my fate.

The cold, gray mist that stains the city walls
  Stands silver-columned where the river glides,
Or, slow dividing, on the valley falls,
    Where one I love abides.

The wind that trifles round my city door,
  Or whirls before me all the city's dust,
By the sea borrows its triumphant roar,
    And lends its savage gust;

Or shrieking rushes where the sombre pines
  Hold solemn converse in the ancient vale,
And while 't is dying in their dark confines
    Babbles their mystic tale.

Could I but climb a roof above my own,
  And greet grave Autumn as he walks the earth
With secret signal that would make me known,
    I should not feel my dearth.

Then silver mist or loud triumphant wind
  Might come in sad disguise and misery;
I would but ponder in my secret mind
    How Autumn answers me.
In The City

by Elizabeth Drew Stoddard, 1895
