So many suns have died at the low pool's brow It is a chest of clothes in disarray, Gowns colored with the night, bands with the day The gods lived through whose busts are crumbling now. Their endless glory and their cruel grace Are as the grass that lines the courtyard stone; Their talk bears an unexpected undertone: The moss on the cold heart and the worn face. The kings have no sceptre in their broken hands, Between her rosy fingers Venus has no rose, Apollo holds no lyre, Cupid no wing expands. ... And the glass of the water helps their days to close, Happy to smile as their last hours go by, Happy to watch themselves there as they die! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...PRIDE by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON TO WILLIAM STANLEY BRAITHWAITE by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON WINTER SONG by KATHERINE MANSFIELD DOMESDAY BOOK: CHARLES WARREN, THE SHERIFF by EDGAR LEE MASTERS DRAW THE SWORD, O REPUBLIC by EDGAR LEE MASTERS SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY: MRS. CHARLES BLISS by EDGAR LEE MASTERS |