 | Sonnets of the Wingless Hours |  |
115
EPILOGUE TO THESE SONNETS.
I wrought them like a targe of hammered gold
On which all Troy is battling round and round;
Or Circe's cup, embossed with snakes that wound
Through buds and myrtles, fold on scaly fold;
On which all Troy is battling round and round;
Or Circe's cup, embossed with snakes that wound
Through buds and myrtles, fold on scaly fold;
Or like gold coins, which Lydian tombs may hold,
Stamped with winged racers, in the old red ground;
Or twined gold armlets from the funeral mound
Of some great viking, terrible of old.
Stamped with winged racers, in the old red ground;
Or twined gold armlets from the funeral mound
Of some great viking, terrible of old.
I know not in what metal I have wrought;
Nor whether what I fashion will be thrust
Beneath the clods that hide forgotten thought;
Nor whether what I fashion will be thrust
Beneath the clods that hide forgotten thought;
But if it is of gold it will not rust;
And when the time is ripe it will be brought
Into the sun, and glitter through its dust.
And when the time is ripe it will be brought
Into the sun, and glitter through its dust.
| Sonnets of the Wingless Hours | |