Dreaming of Cities Dead
Dreaming of cities dead,
Of bright Queens vanished,
Of kings whose names were but as seed wind-blown
E’en when white Patrick’s voice shook Tara’s throne,
My way along the great world-street I tread,
And keep the rites of Beauty lost, alone.
Cairns level with the dust—
Names dim with Time’s dull rust—
Afar they sleep on many a wind-swept hill,
The beautiful, the strong of heart and will—
On whose pale dreams no sunrise joy shall burst,
No harper’s song shall pierce with battle-thrill.
Long from their purpled heights,
Their reign of high delights,
The Queens have wended down Death’s mildewed stair,
Leaving a scent of lilies on the air,
To gladden Earth through all her days and nights,
That once she cherished anything so fair.