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.