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...THE WAY OF THE CONVENTICLE OF THE TREES by HAYDEN CARRUTH ROBERT E. LEE by JULIA WARD HOWE BILL'S LENGTH by ALEXANDER ANDERSON THE WEAVER by CHARLES GRANGER BLANDEN THE WANDERER: 1. IN ITALY: ONCE by EDWARD ROBERT BULWER-LYTTON |