 | The Collected Poems of T. W. H. Crosland |  |
54
Death
For thou wert Master of their windy keeps,
In Tyre, in Ilium, and in Babylon,
Which smote the welkin many a year agone
With torches and with shouting. Whoso sleeps
On the large hills, or drowns in the old deeps,
His name shines in a book for thee to con;
And thy chill pomps and aching triumphs are won
Where the forlornest woman sits and weeps.
In Tyre, in Ilium, and in Babylon,
Which smote the welkin many a year agone
With torches and with shouting. Whoso sleeps
On the large hills, or drowns in the old deeps,
His name shines in a book for thee to con;
And thy chill pomps and aching triumphs are won
Where the forlornest woman sits and weeps.
So that for thee we make embroideries,
And for thy foul pate twist a beamy crown,
Who art the lord of laughter and of lust,
Who readest all their lesson to the wise,
And to the fools, as they go up and down;
And it is this: A cry, a dream, and—dust.
And for thy foul pate twist a beamy crown,
Who art the lord of laughter and of lust,
Who readest all their lesson to the wise,
And to the fools, as they go up and down;
And it is this: A cry, a dream, and—dust.
| The Collected Poems of T. W. H. Crosland | |