Dissolves like a
dress of night,
which doesn't make
any of my
ambitions, or my omissions right,
as enshrouded in the yore, O
Martyr, what remembrance of light
has the sound of primeval cry?
Receiving the motive, far
removed from its sources,
unrestorable even in the might
and presence of your sight
tremendously under that dubious
and subdued shine of yesterday it tries,
Enshrining the destruction
and roving lines; but for
your love had it crushed
all to mites all empire.
Yet a flower breathes
spring. Yet a city
will stand, brighter
when the sun is
down, a city of no more
fashioning strand than your pure
vesture, pines,
ample pyres
of them, and a mound before
me; flanked by the two rivers
stationed by that shore
you once tried to restore.
O vain thoughts!