I am enamour’d of the swans in flight,
That cleave the air with grace none may outshine;
Of trembling roofs hid far from mortal sight,
Where falls of silver veil the ancient pine.

I love the scents that haunt this ruin’d ground,
The hues that linger where all else decays;
For in this city, lost and sorrow-crown’d,
Some secret peace in shadow’d silence stays.

Perchance beyond the tempest and the thrall,
There lies a hallow’d place, untouched by all.

Tourists are sniffing

the holiness of the church –


they make it thinner.