O beautiful, awful summer day, what hast thou given, what taken away?
Defeat may be victory in disguise.
How like they are to human things!
The lowest ebb is the turn of the tide.
Spake full well, in language quaint and olden, One who dwelleth by the castled Rhine, When he called the flowers, so blue and golden, Stars, that in earth's firmament do shine.
White swan of cities slumbering in thy nest . . . White phantom city, whose untrodden streets Are rivers, and whose pavements are the shifting Shadows of the palaces and strips of sky.