At the Golden Horn

The sunrise cry from many minarets
Floats down the Maytime morning clear and cool,
From Asian shores a bland breeze westward sets
And stirs the almond trees of Istamboul.

As on the mosques the first rays slant-wise shine,
And golden glory floods the gloomy gray,
The city of imperial Constantine
Uplifts her weary lids to greet the day.

The torpor of decay upon her lies;
Her heart is palsied though her face be fair,
Though still majestic to the changeless skies
Aya Sofia rears its dome in air.

What though the fitful glow of life seem warm,
There broods a fatal apathy o'er all!—
It is the hush that bodes the breaking storm,
The calm that comes before the final fall.