Harriet Monroe

From “Poems of Travel”

HE built a tower for all to see

With sun-washed gardens planted wide;

And there, with pomp of pageantry,

With men-at-arms and minstrelsy

And moon-beam ladies fair and free,

He reveled in his pride.

And there, with soft prayers muttered slow,

And wind-blown candles burning low,

And hooded mourners row on row,

In pomp of peace he died.

Now time forgets how many a sun

Above the waste has risen and run

Since all the feasts were over and done;

Yet still from rusty pinnacle,

From cobwebbed pane and broken bell,

A wind-voice murmurs: Here am I—

’Twas good to live and die;

And good to rear these carved stones well

’Twixt laboring earth and dreaming sky.

And now ’tis good to watch and wait

While the slow centuries pass in state,

And make old time my glory tell

To you who wander by.