 | The Way of the Winepress |  |
BURIED CITIES.
THE ruthless sun of Scythia rises, setsOn miles of sandheaps, ranged on either hand,
A stately city once, — Old Samarcand.
Now, with its towers, its domes, its minarets,
Bazaars and gardens, tangled in the nets
Of Time, it drowses in the desert land,
Under the cerecloths of the strangling sand,
What while the world its very name forgets.
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That thou to might and majesty hast wrought
With pillared verse and pinnacles of rhyme,
Through many an abstinent day and night austere,
Yet soon will blotted be and buried sheer
Under the drifting, shifting sands of Time.
| The Way of the Winepress | |