Nothing can I recall, O Alma Mater, of thee Save a crumbling ivied wall And a world of obliquity. Nothing but shades discreet, Politic, glib of tongue, Pirouetting on tip-toe feet To where the Mass is sung: -- The Mass, or whatever most In Evangelic places Prefers the Holy Ghost To flamboyant grimaces: -- Nothing: and yet I lie! Across my memory flame, Like blood-drops on ivory, The syllables of a name. Like a red wound in the breast Of a god, like a maiden's cry For her ravished virginity, Like a torch that burneth a city, Comes to me over the years, A wraith of splendour and tears. Christopher Marlowe -- shrive him, God! -- Walked and blasphemed on Corpus sod. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...WHEN THE GREAT GRAY SHIPS COME IN [AUGUST 20, 1898] by GUY WETMORE CARRYL ON THE DEATH OF A FAIR INFANT DYING OF A COUGH by JOHN MILTON THE DISMANTLED SHIP by WALT WHITMAN DICING by AGATHIAS SCHOLASTICUS THE LAY OF THE LOVER'S FRIEND by WILLIAM EDMONSTOUNE AYTOUN A WINTER LANDSCAPE by MATHILDE BLIND THE WILD DOVES by GEORGES BOUTELLEAU ENTERTAINMENT GIVEN BY LORD KNOWLES: SONG 3 by THOMAS CAMPION |