On a Wreath of Laurel Leaves       

Only the day is done, but where the road forks

The broken eyes of statues loom, and rare

Dust stirs, though thirty shadow years despair

By ruined theatres for unfinished works.


Beneath the sea the sunken pleasure-parks

Await a diver from the ancient air;

And there are stars, new worlds, new wonders, where

Unearthly fields lie still before the larks.


Beyond the blind ancestral seers, I saw

The splintered cities and the wormlit choirs;

But, sleepshod, mused, while they, benighted, sang.


Here, by this milestone, desert flyings awe

Strike the light heart, and the thin sound of lyres

Begins, and I must speak now with a parched tongue.