 | Poems |  |
THE WALL-FLOWER OF THE RUINS OF ROME.
O golden-winged on guard at crumbled gateAnd fallen wall of emperors and kings,
Whose very names are now forgotten things,
Thou standest here, in faithfulness to wait
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Keep up the semblance. Never footstep rings
Across the stones; and yet, if sun but flings
One ray, a gleam, like gleam of burnished plate
On mailed men, thy hands have lit, and sent
Along the gray and tottering battlement,
And flung out yellow banners, pricked with red,
Which need not shame a royal house to spread.
Ah, golden-winged, the whole of thy deep spell
I cannot fathom, and thou wilt not tell.
| Poems | |