  What old historic dust gives back the rose! What crumbled empires yield the creeping vine! And purple grapes have sucked a pleasant wine From ramparts that had bowed to sudden blows. Where now the unregarded river flows, Old dissolute cities, their debauches done, Lift up a slender blossom to the sun, Steeped in the thoughtful silence where it grows. Where Splendour was, no Splendour is today: Ruin has wrought upon the crowns of kings, Their throne-rooms all are green and tender things ... And wonder dies,—save in the patient way Of these slow transmutations in the dust: Beauty from power, lilies out of lust. |
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