THE pallid thunder-stricken sigh for gain, Down an ideal stream they ever float, And sailing on Pactolus in a boat, Drown soul and sense, while wistfully they strain Weak eyes upon the glistering sands that robe The understream. The wise, could he behold Cathedraled caverns of thick-ribbed gold And branching silvers of the central globe, Would marvel from so beautiful a sight How scorn and ruin, pain and hate could flow: But Hatred in a gold cave sits below; Pleached with her hair, in mail of argent light Shot into gold, a snake her forehead clips, And skins the color from her trembling lips. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A CHILD'S SONG OF CHRISTMAS by MARJORIE LOWRY CHRISTIE PICKTHALL THE HOUSE OF LIFE: 47. BROKEN MUSIC by DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI THE BROKEN PITCHER by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT ON THE BEACH AT EVENING by HARRY RANDOLPH BLYTHE THE LITTLE FARM by WITTER BYNNER THE TRYST OF THE NIGHT by MAY (MARY) CLARISSA GILLINGTON BYRON |