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Robert Laurence Binyon - The Statues
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Tarry a moment, happy feet,
 That to the sound of laughter glide!
 O glad ones of the evening street,
 Behold what forms are at your side!

 You conquerors of the toilsome day
 Pass by with laughter, labour done;
 But these within their durance stay;
 Their travail sleeps not with the sun.

 They, like dim statues without end,
 Their patient attitudes maintain;
 Your triumphing bright course attend,
 But from your eager ways abstain.

 Now, if you chafe in secret thought,
 A moment turn from light distress,
 And see how Fate on these hath wrought,
 Who yet so deeply acquiesce.

 Behold them, stricken, silent, weak,
 The maimed, the mute, the halt, the blind,
 Condemned amid defeat to seek
 The thing which they shall never find.

 They haunt the shadows of your ways
 In masks of perishable mould:
 Their souls a changing flesh arrays,
 But they are changeless from of old.

 Their lips repeat an empty call,
 But silence wraps their thoughts around.
 On them, like snow, the ages fall;
 Time muffles all this transient sound.

 When Shalmaneser pitched his tent
 By Tigris, and his flag unfurled,
 And forth his summons proudly sent
 Into the new unconquered world;

 Or when with spears Cambyses rode
 Through Memphis and her bending slaves,
 Or first the Tyrian gazed abroad
 Upon the bright vast outer waves;

 When sages, star--instructed men,
 To the young glory of Babylon
 Foreknew no ending; even then
 Innumerable years had flown,

 Since first the chisel in her hand
 Necessity, the sculptor, took,
 And in her spacious meaning planned
 These forms, and that eternal look;

 These foreheads, moulded from afar,
 These soft, unfathomable eyes,
 Gazing from darkness, like a star;
 These lips, whose grief is to be wise.

 As from the mountain marble rude
 The growing statue rises fair,
 She from immortal patience hewed
 The limbs of ever--young despair.

 There is no bliss so new and dear,
 It hath not them far--off allured.
 All things that we have yet to fear
 They have already long endured.

 Nor is there any sorrow more
 Than hath ere now befallen these,
 Whose gaze is as an opening door
 On wild interminable seas.

 O Youth, run fast upon thy feet,
 With full joy haste thee to be filled,
 And out of moments brief and sweet
 Thou shalt a power for ages build.

 Does thy heart falter? Here, then, seek
 What strength is in thy kind! With pain
 Immortal bowed, these mortals weak
 Gentle and unsubdued remain.
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