 | The violet crown by Sir Rennell Rodd |  |
19
DELOS
We came to an isle of flowers
That lay in a trance of sleep,
In a world forgotten of ours,
Far out on a sapphire deep.
That lay in a trance of sleep,
In a world forgotten of ours,
Far out on a sapphire deep.
Dwellers were none on the island,
And far as the eye could see
From the shore to the central highland
Was never a bush nor tree.
And far as the eye could see
From the shore to the central highland
Was never a bush nor tree.
Long, long had her fields lain fallow,
And the drought had dried her rills,
But the vetch and the gourd and mallow
Ran riot on all her hills.
And the drought had dried her rills,
But the vetch and the gourd and mallow
Ran riot on all her hills.
The length of her shoreward level,
High bank and terrace and quay,
Were red with a scarlet revel
Of poppies down to the sea;
High bank and terrace and quay,
Were red with a scarlet revel
Of poppies down to the sea;
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Each bloom pressed close on its fellow,
The marigolds peeped between,
Till the scarlet and the yellow
Had hidden the under-green.
The marigolds peeped between,
Till the scarlet and the yellow
Had hidden the under-green.
Was it here, that heart of a nation,
That first of the fanes of old!
This garden of desolation,
This ruin of red, of gold?
That first of the fanes of old!
This garden of desolation,
This ruin of red, of gold?
High up from the rock-cleft hollow,
Roofed over of Titan hands;
The cradle of dead Apollo
Still looks to his silent lands.
Roofed over of Titan hands;
The cradle of dead Apollo
Still looks to his silent lands.
The sacred lake lies solemn,
In a havoc of fallen shrines;
Where the shaft of each broken column
Is tangled about with vines.
In a havoc of fallen shrines;
Where the shaft of each broken column
Is tangled about with vines.
It lives in the dreams which haunt it,
This isle of the Sun-god's birth,
It lives in the songs which vaunt it
The holiest earth on earth.
This isle of the Sun-god's birth,
It lives in the songs which vaunt it
The holiest earth on earth.
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But the shrines without note or number
Lie wrecked on a barren shore,
And the dead ideals slumber
For ever and evermore.
Lie wrecked on a barren shore,
And the dead ideals slumber
For ever and evermore.
So Spring in her pride of pity
Had hidden the marble wraith,
And shed on the holy city
The flower of sleep and death.
Had hidden the marble wraith,
And shed on the holy city
The flower of sleep and death.
| The violet crown by Sir Rennell Rodd | |