It's not so much another place as time;
The bridges, very much pre-First World War,
The cobbled streets, which oaks still overclimb,
Their mossy sides too wrinkléd and hoar
To be a modern imposition, are
Both undeniably present and rare
Seeming to brave each passing car
To drive across their beauty if it dare
At risk of being quite transformed - as all
The land around (so quiet and so still)
Has seemingly been changed: forever fall,
Forever set upon a distant hill
To be admired. It cannot be here,
Much less with all Chicago still so near.
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