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Christopher Brennan - "The grand cortège of glory and youth is gone . ."
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The grand cortège of glory and youth is gone 
 flaunt standards, and the flood of brazen tone: 
 I alone linger, a regretful guest, 
 here where the hostelry has crumbled down, 
 emptied of warmth and life, and the little town 
 lies cold and ruin`d, all its bravery done, 
 wind-blown, wind-blown, where not even dust may rest. 
 No cymbal-clash warms the chill air: the way 
 lies stretch`d beneath a slanting afternoon, 
 the which no piled pyres of the slaughter`d sun, 
 no silver sheen of eve shall follow: Day, 
 ta`en at the throat and choked, in the huge slum 
 o` the common world, shall fall across the coast, 
 yellow and bloodless, not a wound to boast. 
 But if this bare-blown waste refuse me home 
 and if the skies wither my vesper-flight, 
 `twere well to creep, or ever livid night 
 wrap the disquiet earth in horror, back 
 where the old church stands on our morning`s track, 
 and in the iron-entrellis`d choir, among 
 rust tombs and blazons, where an isle of light 
 is bosom`d in the friendly gloom, devise 
 proud anthems in a long forgotten tongue: 
 so cozening youth`s despair o`er joy that dies.
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