(AMSTERDAM.) NOT a breath in the stifled, dingy street! On the Stadhuis tiles the sun's strong glow Lies like a kind of golden snow. In the square one almost sees the heat. The mottled tulips over there By the open casement pant for air. Grave, portly burghers, with their vrouws, Go hat in hand to cool their brows. But high in the fretted steeple, where The sudden chimes burst forth and scare The lazy rooks from the belfry beam, And the ring-doves as they coo and dream On flying-buttress or carven rose -- Up here, mein Gott! a tempest blows!-- Such a wind as bends the forest tree, And rocks the great ships out at sea. Plain simple folk, who come and go On humble levels of life below, Little dream of the gales that smite Mortals dwelling upon the height! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A MOTHER TO HER WAKING INFANT by JOANNA BAILLIE ESCAPE by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON FOR YOU O DEMOCRACY by WALT WHITMAN BLACKMWORE MAIDENS by WILLIAM BARNES A SISTER OF SORROW: 2. WEEPING CROSS by GORDON BOTTOMLEY BIARTEY'S SPINNING SONG, FR. THE RIDING TO LITHEND by GORDON BOTTOMLEY |