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Robert Laurence Binyon - Thule
Work rating: Low

Random rock
 And the stain of the rain,
 Smell of bracken,
 The windy moor
 And the wild cloud,

 And rising blurred
 In the showery gray
 A nameless mound
 Of the perished people
 Who built nothing,--

 Content I savour
 My Northern earth,
 Till memory`s shuttle
 Darts across it
 A far picture;

 A little temple
 Long deserted
 Warming its honey--pale
 Gracious columns
 In the soft South.

 Remote the mountains
 In blue noon;
 Before the temple
 A spring bubbles
 In vivid grass.

 There once approaching
 To enter the sacred
 Dimness, youth
 Beheld gleaming
 The breasts of Venus;

 Vanished! only
 The morning sun
 Comes to the marble
 Warm as the touch
 Of youthful lips.

 Am I there,
 Where the vines redden
 Beneath white towers
 And dark the cypress
 Points aloof,

 Where Beauty brought forth
 Wondrous children
 To smile down Time
 And the passing, passing
 Trouble of the world?

 Or here, where rooted
 Ancient fibre
 Stirs to the wind
 And the blood in answer
 Deeply stirs;

 To the wind that smells
 Of ocean spray,
 That blows as the spirit
 Blows, and finds
 Upon earth no home?
Source
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