Quebec.
Quebec, the gray old city on the hill, Lies, with a golden glory on her head, Dreaming throughout this hour so fair, so still, Of other days and her belovd dead. The doves are nesting in the cannons grim, The flowers bloom where once did run a tide Of crimson when the moon rose pale and dim Above a field of battle stretching wide. Methinks within her wakes a mighty glow Of pride in ancient times, her stirring past, The strife, the valor of the long ago Feels at her heart-strings. Strong and tall, and vast She lies, touched with the sunset's golden grace, A wondrous softness on her gray old face.
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"Quebec, the gray old city on the hill,..."
Jean Blewett's contribution to classic is further solidified by the brilliance found in "Quebec."... ### Why We Love This Line At Linespedia, we believe that poetry is the ultimate sanctuary for the soul...