WHERE are thy splendors, Dorian Corinth? Where Thy crested turrets, thy ancestral goods, The temple of the blest, the dwellings of the fair, The high-born dames, the myriad multitudes? There's not a trace of thee, sad doomed one, left; By ravening war at once of all bereft. We, the sad nereids, offspring of the surge, Alone are spared to chant the halcyon's dirge. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...AT APRIL by ANGELINA WELD GRIMKE THE PHILOSOPHER TOAD by REBECCA S. REED NICHOLS MY ALPENSTOCK by HENRY GLASSFORD BELL AS FROM THE PAST -- by WILLIAM ROSE BENET SHE IS SO PRETTY by PIERRE JEAN DE BERANGER EARLY VENEZIAN DETAIL by GORDON BOTTOMLEY MAUDLIN'S SONG: 2 by GORDON BOTTOMLEY |