She was a city of patience; of proud name,
Dimmed by neglecting Time; of beauty and loss;
Of acquiescence in the creeping moss.
But on a sudden fierce destruction came Tigerishly pouncing: thunderbolt and flame Showered on her streets, to shatter them and toss Her ancient towers to ashes.
Riven across,
She rose, dead, into never-dying fame.
White against heavens of storm, a ghost, she is known To the world's ends.
The myriads of the brave Sleep round her.
Desolately glorified,
She, moon-like, draws her own far-moving tide Of sorrow and memory; toward her, each alone,
Glide the dark dreams that seek an English grave.
