| Where the quiet-coloured end of evening
smiles, |
| Miles and miles |
| On the solitary pastures where our sheep |
| Half-asleep |
| Tinkle homeward through the twilight, stray
or stop |
| As they crop― |
| Was the site once of a city great and gay, |
| (So they say) |
| Of our country’s very capital, its prince |
| Ages since |
| Held his court in, gathered councils,
wielding far |
Peace or war.
|
| Now,―the country does not even boast a
tree, |
| As you see, |
| To distinguish slopes of verdure, certain
rills |
| From the hills |
| Intersect and give a name to, (else they
run |
| Into one) |
| Where the domed and daring palace shot its
spires |
| Up life fires |
| O’er the hundred-gated circuit of a wall |
| Bounding all, |
| Made of marble, men might march on nor be
pressed, |
Twelve abreast.
|
| And such plenty and perfection, see, of
grass |
| Never was! |
| Such a carpet as, this summer time,
o’erspreads |
| And embeds |
| Every vestige of the city, guessed alone, |
| Stock or stone― |
| Where a multitude of men breathed joy and
woe |
| Long ago; |
| Lust of glory pricked their hearts up,
dread of shame |
| Struck them tame; |
| And that glory and that shame alike, the
gold |
Bought and sold.
|
| Now,―the single little turret that remains |
| On the plains, |
| By the caper overrooted, by the gourd |
| Overscored, |
| While the patching houseleek’s head of
blossom winks |
| Through the chinks― |
| Marks the basement whence a tower in
ancient time |
| Sprang sublime, |
| And a burning ring, all round, the chariots
traced |
| As they raced, |
| And the monarch and his minions and his
dames |
Viewed the games.
|
| And I know, while thus the quiet-coloured
eve |
| Smiles to leave |
| To their folding, all our many-tinkling
fleece |
| In such peace, |
| And the slopes and rills in undistinguished
grey |
| Melt away― |
| That a girl with eager eyes and yellow hair |
| Waits me there |
| In the turret whence the charioteers caught
soul |
| For the goal, |
| When the king looked, where she looks now,
breathless, dumb |
Till I come.
|
| But he looked upon the city, every side, |
| Far and wide, |
| All the mountains topped with temples, all
the glades’ |
| Colonnades, |
| All the causeys, bridges, aqueducts,―and
then, |
| All the men! |
| When I do come, she will speak not, she
will stand, |
| Either hand |
| On my shoulder, give her eyes the first
embrace |
| Of my face, |
| Ere we rush, ere we extinguish sight and
speech |
Each on each.
|
| In one year they sent a million fighters
forth |
| South and North, |
| And they built their gods a brazen pillar
high |
| As the sky, |
| Yet reserved a thousand chariots in full
force― |
| Gold, of course. |
| Oh heart! oh blood that freezes, blood that
burns! |
| Earth’s returns |
| For whole centuries of folly, noise and
sin! |
| Shut them in, |
| With their triumphs and their glories and
the rest! |
Love is best!
|
| Robert
Browning | Classic
Poems |
| |
|
[ A Toccata of Galuppi's ] [ Epilogue to Asolando ] [ Confessions ] [ Home Thoughts from Abroad ] [ Love among the Ruins ] [ Two in the Campagna ] [ Meeting at Night ] [ Love in a Life ] [ Home Thoughts from the Sea ] [ The Lost Leader ] [ My Last Duchess ] |
