And we turn from the market, the haggling, the beggar, the cheat, to cry to the gods of the city in the open space of the temple -- we enter the temple-space to cry to the gods and forget the clamour, the filth. We turn to the old gods of the city, of the city once blessed with daemon and spirit of blitheness and spirit of mirth, we cry; what god with shy laughter, or with slender winged ankles is left? What god, what bright spirit for us, what daemon is left of the many that crowded the porches that haunted the streets, what fair god with bright sandal and belt? Though we tried the old turns of the city and searched the old streets, though we cried to the gods of the city: O spirits, turn back, re-enter the gates of our city -- we met but one god, one tall god with a spear-shaft, one bright god with a lance. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...FLUTE-PRIEST SONG FOR RAIN; CEREMONIAL AT THE SUN SPRING by AMY LOWELL ADAM AND HIS FATHER by KAREN SWENSON HENRY MOORE'S STATUE AT LINCOLN CENTER by KAREN SWENSON GOD'S GARDEN by RICHARD EUGENE BURTON WITCHCRAFT BY A PICTURE by JOHN DONNE SCORN NOT THE LEAST by ROBERT SOUTHWELL LEFT BEHIND by ELIZABETH AKERS ALLEN |