The roots of a dead universe are shrunken in my brain; And the tinsel leafed branches of the charred trees are strewn; And the chaff we deem'd for harvest shall be turned to golden grain, While May no more will mimic March, but June be only June. Lo! a ghost enleaguer'd city where no ghostly footfall came! And a rose within the mirror with the fragrance of it hid; And mine ear prest to the mouth of the shadow of a name; But no ghost or speech or fragrance breathing on my faint eyelid. I would crash the city's ramparts, touch the ghostly hands without. Break the mirror, feel the scented warm lit petals of the rose. Would mine ears be stretched for shadows in the fading of the doubt? Other ears shall wait my shadow, — can you see behind the brows? For I would see with mine own eyes the glory and the gold. With a strange and fervid vision see the glamour and the dream. And chant an incantation in a measure new and bold, And enaureole a glory round an unawaken'd theme. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...WISHES TO HIS SUPPOSED MISTRESS by RICHARD CRASHAW TO CONSTANTIA, SINGING (1) by PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY A CHILD'S GRAVE by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH TWELVE SONNETS: 1. THY SWEETNESS by GEORGE BARLOW (1847-1913) SEA LAVENDER by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT ASOLANDO: WHITE WITCHCRAFT by ROBERT BROWNING |