All things must fade.
There is for cities tall The same tomorrow as for daffodils:
Time's wind, that casts the seed, the petal spills.
Grim London's ruined arches yet shall fall Back to the arms of Earth.
A quiet pall The mother draws over those she loves—and kills;
And though brief nations vaunt their upstart wills,
The nemesis of grass shall cover all.
So—from a caravan to Mecca bound Getting no more than one incurious glance— Tremendous Babylon, thrice-girt with walls,
Sick of her thousand years of arrogance,
With a few tamarisks upon a mound Her epigraph upon the desert scrawls.
