Ruins

THE illustrious city is a shadowy shape,
Turned back into a haunt of grassy peace;
The broken chapters bleed with ripe wild grape.

 

And the barbarian shepherd in his fleece,
Tending his goats among the mallows rank,
Tramples without a pang the soil of Greece.

 

Neither the oblique sun upon the flank
Of snowy mountains, nor the dawn upcast
On misty peaks is cause for him to thank

 

The great gods sleeping in their urns shut fast;
And when the shagged wild oxen like a wave
Go through the Arch where conquered armies passed,

 

There is no hero there to draw his glaive,
But weeds mourn o'er the ruins in the drouth
Of autumn, and in bitter winds that rave.

 

Closed with black ivy is the Gorgon's mouth.