Through thou art now a ruin bare and cold,
Thou wert sometime the garden of a king.
The birds have sought a lovelier place to sing.
The flowers are few. It was not so of old.
It was not thus when hand in hand there strolled
Through arbors perfumed with undying Spring
Bare bodies beautiful, brown, glistening,
Decked with green plumes and rings of yellow gold.
Do you suppose the herdsman sometimes hears
Vague echoes borne beneath the moon’s pale ray
From those old, old, far-off, forgotten years?
Who knows? Here where his ancient kings held sway
He stands. Their names are strangers to his ears.
Even their memory has passed away.
|About the poet|
|By the same poet|
|An Ode to Natural Beauty|
|The Deserted Garden|
|The Torture of Cuauhtemoc|
|The Need to Love|
|All That's Not Love...|
|The Sultan’s Palace|
|With a Copy of Shakespeare’s Sonnets on Leaving College|
|Written in a Volume of the Comtesse de Noailles|
|The Old Lowe House, Staten Island|
|On the Cliffs, Newport|
|To England at the Outbreak of the Balkan War|
|At the Tomb of Napoleon Before the Elections in America—November, 1912|
|Do You Remember Once...|
|An Ode to Antares|
|Dante. Inferno, Canto XXVI|
|Ariosto. Orlando Furioso, Canto X, 91-99|
|On a Theme in the Greek Anthology|
|After an Epigram of Clement Marot|
|The Aisne (1914-15)|
|I Have a Rendezvous with Death...|
|A Message to America|
|Introduction and Conclusion of a Long Poem|
|Ode in Memory of the American Volunteers Fallen for France|
|Alan Seeger at amazon.co.uk|