IN THE BELFRY OF THE NIEUWE KERK.
(AMSTERDAM.)
Now a breath in the stifled, dingy street! On the Stadhuis tiles the sun's strong glow Lies like a kind of golden snow. In the square one almost sees the heat. The mottled tulips over there By the open casement pant for air. Grave, portly burghers, with their vrouws, Go hat in hand to cool their brows.
But high in the fretted steeple, where The sudden chimes burst forth and scare The lazy rooks from the belfry beam, And the ring-doves as they coo and dream On flying-buttress or carven rose— Up here, mein Gott! a tempest blows!— Such a wind as bends the forest tree, And rocks the great ships out at sea.
Plain simple folk, who come and go On humble levels of life below, Little dream of the gales that smite Mortals dwelling upon the height!