Early Poems

These are the ruins of a desperate day.

Among cold jagged stones

The serpents used to sway;

But now their empty skins, dull diamond tones,

Litter the lifeless towers.

The secret grief-enveloped complex rooms

A moment gleam with truth;

For, while the spinning spider winds

His way among the poisoned blooms

That loiter through the arches,

The dank deceitful foliage still reminds

The curious traveller: ‘Here is sadness

And the waste of youth.’