A flame's in skies. The night lays dead and grey.
The wood's high trees are crowding around,
But in the night I clear hear sound -
The hum of mobs in city faraway.

One can detect the set of buildings, bold,
And towers and teeth of its austere loop-holes,
And shady gardens in a fence of stones,
And proud walls of the antique stronghold.

Such gracefully passed ages can help us
To frame our mind for even resurrection:
By flux of being in a back direction -
By noise of cities, vanished in the past.