famous poem

when night drifts along the streets of the city
from our hidden places
her face is fair and smooth and fine
shines the last age, the next with hope is seen
in mournful numbers
i walk down the garden paths
for i was a gaunt, grave councillor
all day to watch the blue wave curl and break
there was a time in former years
a gleam of gold in gloom and gray
risen from the dead