 | The Collected Poems of Philip Bourke Marston |  |
A FALLEN CITY.
Gazing upon some city wrecked by war,
The stranger, standing in its desolate square,
O'er which broods low the stagnant autumn air,
Marvels at thought that here was once the jar
Of clashing weapons, while from near and far
The death-fires blazed, and in their lurid glare
Gleamed awful faces: women shuddered there,
And raised frail hands their awful doom to bar.
The stranger, standing in its desolate square,
O'er which broods low the stagnant autumn air,
Marvels at thought that here was once the jar
Of clashing weapons, while from near and far
The death-fires blazed, and in their lurid glare
Gleamed awful faces: women shuddered there,
And raised frail hands their awful doom to bar.
Here, too, he ponders, was mirth once and song,
And glad feet danced, and eyes with joy were bright:
So in my heart was music sweet and strong,
In long-gone days, and festival and light;
Then strife and clamor; now darkness and the throng
Of grieving ghosts that haunt the ruins by night.
And glad feet danced, and eyes with joy were bright:
So in my heart was music sweet and strong,
In long-gone days, and festival and light;
Then strife and clamor; now darkness and the throng
Of grieving ghosts that haunt the ruins by night.
| The Collected Poems of Philip Bourke Marston | |