Now tell me, Villon, where is he, Young Sporus, lord of Nero's lyre, Who marked with languid ecstasy The seven hills grow red with fire? And he whose madness choked the hall With roses and made night of day? Rome's rulers for an interval, Its boyish Caesars, where are they? Where is that city by the Nile, Reared by an emperor's bronze distress When the enamoured crocodile Clawed the Bithynian's loveliness? The argent pool whose listening trees Heard Echo's voice die far away? Narcissus, Hylas, Charmides, O brother Villon, where are they? Say where the Young Disciple roved When the Messiah's blood was spilt? None knows: for he whom Jesus loved Was not the rock on which He built. And tell me where is Gaveston, The second Edward's dear dismay? And Shakespeare's love, and Jonathan, O brother Villon, where are they? Made -- for what end? -- by God's great hand, Frail enigmatic shapes, they dwell In some phantastic borderland, But on the hitherside of hell! Children of Lilith, each a sprite, Yet wrought like us of Adam's clay, And when they haunt us in the night What, brother Villon, shall we say? | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE BIRDS: THE HYMN OF THE BIRDS by ARISTOPHANES TARQUIN AND THE AUGUR by WILLIAM EDMONSTOUNE AYTOUN THE RIVER STOUR by WILLIAM BARNES WHAT IS THE SPIRIT? by KATHARINE LEE BATES NATALIA'S RESURRECTION: 1 by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT |