A TANGLE of iron rods and spluttered beams, On brickwork past the skill of a mason to mend: A wall with a bright blue poster -- odd as dreams Is the city's latter end. A shapeless obelisk looms Saint Martin's spire, Now a lean aiming-mark for the German guns; And the Cloth Hall crouches beside, disfigured with fire, The glory of Flanders once. Only the foursquare tower still bears the trace Of beauty that was, and strong embattled age, And gilded ceremonies and pride of place -- Before this senseless rage. And still you may see (below the noon serene, The mysterious, changeless vault of sharp blue light), The pigeons come to the tower, and flaunt and preen, And flicker in playful flight. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...MONNA INNOMINATA, A SONNET OF SONNETS: 10 by CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI TO A CONTEMPORARY BUNKSHOOTER by CARL SANDBURG HENDECASYLLABICS by ALFRED TENNYSON VERSES TO THE MEMORY OF MARY FLETCHER by BERNARD BARTON A NEW PILGRIMAGE: 15 by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT THE GOLDEN ODES OF PRE-ISLAMIC ARABIA: LEBID by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT A PRAYER FOR A LITTLE HOME by FLORENCE BONE |