|
|
Roman Antiquities - From The Roman Station At Old Penrith
By William Wordsworth
How profitless the relics that we cull,
Troubling the last holds of ambitious Rome,
Unless they chasten fancies that presume
Too high, or idle agitations lull!
Of the world's flatteries if the brain be full,
To have no seat for thought were better doom,
Like this old helmet, or the eyeless skull
Of him who gloried in its nodding plume.
Heaven out of view, our wishes what are they?
Our fond regrets tenacious in their grasp?
The Sage's theory? the Poet's lay?
Mere Fibulae without a robe to clasp;
Obsolete lamps, whose light no time recalls;
Urns without ashes, tearless lacrymals!
Extra Info:
From Yarrow Revisited, And Other Poems
Composed (Except Two) During A Tour In Scotland And On The English Border, In The Autumn Of 1831.
|
|
Printable Page
Add Your Thoughts on this poem.
This page viewed 493 times.
|
|
