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I am in love with you, strange city: Not for your silver tusk of moon, Or golden nuggets in the sky; Nor for the old wind-woman’s croon: Not for your spiders weaving fog From wall to street, and street to stream; Not even for your Magdalen Tower Touching the clouds, a sculptured dream. I am in love with you, strange city, For you stir in your valley lands Quietly as a woman’s eyes, Patiently as a woman’s hands.