The beauty of a city seems to be Not in the architecture, or a spire, Nor edifice, or spider-work of wire; For beauty is too wild, untamed, and free To stay concrete, inert, for all to see, Dressing a structure in the drab attire That clothes embodiments of our desire To build in stone, some strange hyperbole. The beauty of a city seems aloof -- Long undiscovered by a stranger there, But we, who daily weave its warp and woof, May pick the tangled threads up everywhere: It is the friendliness of market places In the rain; and smiles on passing faces. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest... |