The coins here are works of art:
Drachmas and staters, set apart,
These silver circles gleam again,
Almost bring back Hellenic man
To Syracuse. At Akragas
The gilded temples, wreathed with grass,
Sing to the sea in broken lines.
Segesta’s valley still defines
Perfection in a Doric mode,
As though a new Pindaric ode
Suddenly were known. The charioteer
Stands now in Delphi; there his clear
Eyes gaze across museum rooms;
While here the grecian face assumes
But beauty, strength, and all success
Soon fail. Why write the poems that must
Be lost in pale papyrus dust?
Heaven commands. Always the sea
Surrounds the island. Always the
Silver dolphin, youth astride,
Pays out the past, a poet’s guide,
And bronzes, drowned in green, await discovery.