THE pallid thunder-stricken sigh for gain, Down an ideal stream they ever float, And sailing on Pactolus in a boat, Drown soul and sense, while wistfully they strain Weak eyes upon the glistering sands that robe The understream. The wise, could he behold Cathedraled caverns of thick-ribbed gold And branching silvers of the central globe, Would marvel from so beautiful a sight How scorn and ruin, pain and hate could flow: But Hatred in a gold cave sits below; Pleached with her hair, in mail of argent light Shot into gold, a snake her forehead clips, And skins the color from her trembling lips. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TO MAY HOWARD JACKSON - SCULPTOR by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON ON HUNTINGDON'S 'MIRANDA' by SIDNEY LANIER YOUR HANDS by ANGELINA WELD GRIMKE THE KISS TO THE FLAG by JEAN FRANCOIS VICTOR AICARD PHILIP, KING OF MACEDON by ALCAEUS OF MESSENE |