Whither, O city, are your profits and your gilded shrines, And your barbecues of great oxen, And the tall women walking your streets, in gilt clothes, With their perfumes in little alabaster boxes? Where is the work of your home-born sculptors? Time's tooth is into the lot, and war's and fate's too. Envy has taken your all, Save your douth and your story. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...YOUNG SAMMY'S FIRST WILD OATS by GEORGE SANTAYANA GOD'S YOUTH by LOUIS UNTERMEYER REVELRY OF THE DYING by BARTHOLOMEW DOWLING FALSE POETS AND TRUE; TO WORDSWORTH by THOMAS HOOD THE SPIDER AND THE FLY by MARY HOWITT |