WHEN, high above the busy street,

Some hidden voice poured Mary's song.

Oh, then my soul forgot the heat

And roaring of the city's throng:

Then London bells and cries fell low,

Blent to a far and murmured tone

That changed and chimed in mystic flow,

Weaving a spell for me alone.

No more the towering blocks were there,

No longer pressed the crowds around:

All freely roamed a magic air

Within what vast horizon's bound:

Beneath a sky of lucent gray

Far stretched my circled northern plain,

Wild sunflowers decked a prairie gay,

And one dear Autumn came again.

Before me trod a winsome maid,

And oh, the mien with which she stept!

Her soft brown hair, without a braid,

Hiding the shoulders where it swept;

And glancing backward now she gave

To me the smile so true and wise,

The radiant look from eyes so grave

That spoke her inmost Paradise.

Divinely on my daughter went,

The wild flowers leaning from her tread;

Dreaming she lived, I watched intent

Till, ah, the gracious vision fled;

The plain gave place to blocks of grey,

The sunlit heaven to murky cloud—

Staring I stood in common day.

And never knew the street so loud.