It may be, when this city of the nine gates Is broken down by ruinous old age, And no one upon any pilgrimage Comes knocking, no one for an audience waits, And no bright foraging troop of bandit moods Rides out on the brave folly of any quest, But weariness, the restless shadow of rest, Hoveringly upon the city broods; It may be, then, that those remembering And sleepless watchers on the crumbling towers Shall lose the count of the disastrous hours Which God may have grown tired of reckoning, | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE SHPEHERD'S HOUR by PAUL VERLAINE ODE TO BEAUTY by RALPH WALDO EMERSON FEBRUARY IN ROME by EDMUND WILLIAM GOSSE A CELEBRATION OF CHARIS: 4. HER TRIUMPH by BEN JONSON THE MITHERLESS BAIRN by WILLIAM THOM SONNET WRITTEN IN THE FALL OF 1914: 4 by GEORGE EDWARD WOODBERRY |