Not the city, and not written by the Hollywood agent William Morris, but rather a guy from the 19th century.
I am the ancient Apple-Queen,
As once I was so am I now,
For evermore a hope unseen,
Betwixt the blossom and the bough.
Ah, where’s the river’s hidden Gold?
And where the windy grave of Troy?
Yet come I as I come of old,
From out the heart of Summer’s joy.