New Zealand Verse/The City from the Hills

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LXVI.

The City from the Hills.

There lies our city folded in the mist,Like a great meadow in an early mornFlinging her spears of grass up through white films,Each with its thousand thousand-tinted globes.
Above us such an air as poets dream,The clean and vast wing-winnowed clime of Heaven.
Each of her streets is closed with shining Alps,Like Heaven at the end of long plain lives.

Arnold Wall.

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