Look—on the topmost branches of the world br The blossoms of the myriad stars are thick; br Over the huddled rows of stone and brick, br A few, sad wisps of empty smoke are curled br Like ghosts, languid and sick. br br One breathless moment now the city's moaning br Fades, and the endless streets seem vague and dim; br There is no sound around the whole world's rim, br Save in the distance a small band is droning br Some desolate old hymn.