I stood upon a heaven-cleaving turret
Which overlooked a wide Metropolis—
And in the temple of my heart my Spirit
Lay prostrate, and with parted lips did kiss
The dust of Desolations [altar] hearth—
And with a voice too faint to falter
It shook that trembling fane with its weak prayer
’Twas noon,—the sleeping skies were blue
The city...

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