It may be, when this city of the nine gates Is broken down by ruinous old age, And no one upon any pilgrimage Comes knocking, no one for an audience waits, And no bright foraging troop of bandit moods Rides out on the brave folly of any quest, But weariness, the restless shadow of rest, Hoveringly upon the city broods; It may be, then, that those remembering And sleepless watchers on the crumbling towers Shall lose the count of the disastrous hours Which God may have grown tired of reckoning, | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE HEART OF THE BRUCE by WILLIAM EDMONSTOUNE AYTOUN TAM I' THE KIRK by VIOLET JACOB AVE MARIA GRATIA PLENA by OSCAR WILDE LES HIBOUX by CHARLES BAUDELAIRE THRENODY by THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES ODE TO A CHILD by MATHILDE BLIND THE TRAMPS by ROBERT SEYMOUR BRIDGES PARLEYINGS WITH CERTAIN PEOPLE OF IMPORTANCE: APOLLO AND THE FATES by ROBERT BROWNING |