Bruges: Quai des Augustins

Within the sad, deserted street,
We stand a little space to gaze,
Beneath the high-walled garden's shade,
Amid the twilight's growing haze.

The still depths of the dark canal,
Between gray walls of ancient stone,
Stir not to any wind that blows,
And seem so silent, so alone,

We wonder at the lazy swans
That o'er the water dare to glide,
And marvel at the lads who cast
Their pebbles from the bridge's side.

Quaint houses bound the darksome wave,
Time-tinted, yellow, umber, gray,
With gaping gargoyles overhead,
And underneath sweet gardens gay,

With ivy, flung like cloaks of green.
Upon the worn and mottled wall;
Forgotten centuries ago
By burgher dames at even-fall.

Across the narrow space of flowers,
A maid in scarlet petticoat
Comes with the shining pail of brass,
And bends above the moveless moat;

And breaks her image with the pail,
And scares the swans, and trips away,
And leaves the stern, gray, sombre street
To silence and the waning day.