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.