  Around about the town stand eighty gray stone towers, That make a fitter crown, a hardier show than flowers For what is high and brave—the tawny Castile plain— So patient and so grave, incarnate soul of Spain. You have made sweet the ways of penury and care With dawn and sunset praise and white still hours of prayer, Old town of mystic saint! Secure you ask: Does peace, Or restless seeking plaint come with your wealth's increase? An answering sound of bells across the upland goes, To each field-toiler tells a message of repose, And mounting to the sky's slow-darkening, tranquil dome The heart-calm echoes rise of peasants lingering home. |
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