Oblivion

The Temple's ruins all the headland strew,
Upon whose tawny height brass heroes wane,
With marble goddesses, whose glory vain
The lonely grass shrouds tenderly from view.

Only at times a careless herdsman, who,
Leading his drove to drink, pipes an old strain
Which floods the heavens to the very main,
Shows his dark form against the boundless blue.

The Earth, sweet mother to the Gods of old,
At springtime vainly, eloquently weaves
Round the rent capital acanthus leaves;

But man, no more by ancient dreams controlled,
Hears without tremor, in the midnight deep,
The grieving Sea for her lost sirens weep.