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Arthur Symons - Old Age
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It may be, when this city of the nine gates 
Is broken down by ruinous old age, 
And no one upon any pilgrimage 
Comes knocking, no one for an audience waits, 
And no bright foraging troop of bandit moods 
Rides out on the brave folly of any guest 
But weariness, the restless shadow of rest, 
Hoveringly upon the city broods; 
It may be, then, that those remembering 
And sleepless watchers on the crumbling towers 
Shall lose the count of the disastrous hours 
Which God may have grown tired of reckoning.
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