Joy's City hath high battlements of gold; Joy's City hath her streets of gem-wrought flow'rs; She hath her palaces high reared and bold, And tender shades of perfumed lily bowers; But ever day by day, and ever night by night, An Angel measures still our City of Delight. He hath a rule of gold, and never stays, But ceaseless round the burnish'd ramparts glides; He measures minutes of her joyous days, Her walls, her trees, the music of her tides; The roundness of her buds--Joy's own fair city lies, Known to its heart-core by his stern and thoughtful eyes. Above the sounds of timbrel and of song, Of greeting friends, of lovers 'mid the flowers, The Angel's voice arises clear and strong: 'O City, by so many leagues thy bow'rs Stretch o'er the plains, and in the fair high-lifted blue So many cubits rise thy tow'rs beyond the view.' Why dost thou, Angel, measure Joy's fair walls? Unceasing gliding by their burnish'd stones; Go, rather measure Sorrow's gloomy halls; Her cypress bow'rs, her charnel-house of bones; Her groans, her tears, the rue in her jet chalices; But leave unmeasured more, Joy's fairy palaces. The Angel spake: 'Joy hath her limits set, But Sorrow hath no bounds--Joy is a guest Perchance may enter; but no heart puls'd yet, Where Sorrow did not lay her down to rest; She hath no city by so many leagues confin'd, I cannot measure bounds where there are none to find.'