 | Stones from The Quarry |  |
PARIS.
Blood cries up from thy streets; stone unto stone,And beam calls unto beam from out thy wall!
Stol'd History trails her skirts as of a pall
Athwart thy ways, and maketh still her moan;
And dips her pen in blood of martyrs gone
To tell the tale of those who yet shall fall;
And keeps a large page blank, to write thee all
At length, when Nemesis shall claim her own!
O bright and beautiful! Yet with foul stain
Of blood on thy so dainty hands, I trow:
“Out, damnèd spot!” thou say'st still and again,
But, as before, it cleaves unto thee now.
Thou, of the nations beautiful—Insane,
Medusa-like, hast snakes about thy brow!
| Stones from The Quarry | |