Hammarizere

There's a city called Hammarizere,
In a lovely land that I will not name;
Where all of the round of the ruling year
As a summer mere the skies are clear,
And only the flowers of life take flame
From the great white sun in the dazzling dome;
And though dew ne'er gathers and rain ne'er falls,
There are waters that circle the shining walls,
And break into bubble and toss into foam
Round the city called Hammarizere.

There's a city called Hammarizere,
Where every gate is jeweled with jade
And opal, shimmering sphere on sphere;
And the mounting pinnacles, each a spear
Of welded marble, swim from a shade
So tenebrous that the nightingales
Sing all day long their love-despair,
Making amorous the emerald air
With the passionate burden of their tales,
In the city called Hammarizere.

There's a city called Hammarizere,
And they that dwell there never know
Aught of folly or aught of fear,
Aught that's desolate, aught that's drear,
And are never touched by the sting of woe.
Zither and lute and viol leave
The luring rapture of their spells;
And the lore of love into canticles
Forever the lips of the poets weave,
In the city called Hammarizere.

There's a city called Hammarizere;
I have fashioned it out of dreams, you say,
With the glow of its glamourous atmosphere,
And its roofs uptowering tier o'er tier
Into the heart of the azure day.
I have builded it out of dreams!—what then?
Forsooth, it is sometimes well to bide,
With care like a garment cast aside,
Away from the words and the wiles of men,
In the city called Hammarizere!