  The Roman wall was not more grave than this, That has no league at all with great affairs, That knows no ruder hands than clematis, No louder blasts than blowing April airs. Yet, with a grey solemnity it broods, Above the walk where simple folk go past, And in its crannies keeps their transient moods, Holding their careless words unto the last. The rains of summer, and the creeping vine That season after season clings in trust, And shivered poppies red as Roman wine,— These things at last will haunt its crumbled dust— Not dreams of empires shattered where they lie, But children's laughter, birds, and bits of sky. |
|
