 | The house of the titans and other poems |  |
73
MUSEUM
Why sit I here communing
With shapes of the dead mind,
The outworn perfect beauty,
The gods we left behind?
With shapes of the dead mind,
The outworn perfect beauty,
The gods we left behind?
Though here all gods are gathered
The wonder has not grown.
The gods speak to us only
From their own natural throne.
The wonder has not grown.
The gods speak to us only
From their own natural throne.
Not here, but in wild places
Where wind and water reel
In ecstasy, light-stricken.
The gods may there reveal
Where wind and water reel
In ecstasy, light-stricken.
The gods may there reveal
The forms that hold the sceptre,
Brows bright with more than gold;
All that through lips of wonder
The sibyls breathed of old.
Brows bright with more than gold;
All that through lips of wonder
The sibyls breathed of old.
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