 | The Poems of A. C. Benson |  |
IV
Or I can trace the cycles that have been,
See silent priests, dead Cæsars, face to face;
Laugh with old wits, with serious statesmen pace,
Peep unobserved at many a secret scene.
See silent priests, dead Cæsars, face to face;
Laugh with old wits, with serious statesmen pace,
Peep unobserved at many a secret scene.
Thence through wild woods my dreaming way I take,
Through ancient cities piled of ponderous stones,
Or dripping caverns carpeted with bones,
To wattled huts isled in a mountain lake.
Through ancient cities piled of ponderous stones,
Or dripping caverns carpeted with bones,
To wattled huts isled in a mountain lake.
Backwards, still backwards, till the glowing earth
Lose beast and tree, and show her haggard scars;
To chaos, and the chill sun's nebulous birth:—
Above, beneath, the flaming æons roll:—
Still in its cold cell sits the brooding soul,
More to itself than thirty thousand stars.
Lose beast and tree, and show her haggard scars;
To chaos, and the chill sun's nebulous birth:—
Above, beneath, the flaming æons roll:—
Still in its cold cell sits the brooding soul,
More to itself than thirty thousand stars.
| The Poems of A. C. Benson | |