IT SEEMS no work of man's creative hand, By labour wrought as wavering fancy plann'd, But from the rock as if by magic grown, Eternal, silent, beautiful, alone! Not virgin-white like the old Doric shrine Where erst Athena held her rites divine; Not saintly-grey, like many a minster fane, That crowns the hill, and consecrates the plain; But rosy-red as if the blush of dawn That first beheld them were not yet withdrawn; The hues of youth upon a brow of woe, Which man deemed old two thousand years ago. Match me such marvel save in Eastern clime, A rose-red city half as old as Time. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...VICTORY IN DEFEAT by EDWIN MARKHAM THE TOMB AT AKR CAAR by EZRA POUND THIRD BOOK OF AIRS: SONG 20 by THOMAS CAMPION DICKENS IN CAMP by FRANCIS BRET HARTE DREAMS OLD AND NASCENT: NASCENT by DAVID HERBERT LAWRENCE A LONDON PLANE-TREE by AMY LEVY CROSSING THE BAR by ALFRED TENNYSON |