A picture poem
ISLE OF THE DEAD after Bocklin
Ruins so old that cypresses a grove
have grown. The island was not always there
the water rose around it. Stone scoured bare
of signs and busy windows. Some force stove
and sheared the sides away. A city stood
this is the last. One day it will be gone
under the cloud sea. Somewhere there is sun
but it does not shine here. Dark in the wood
some shrine in which veils serve the last faint god
but hardly worship. Hope's gone. Millions trod
streets hundred feet below. The bad the good
dust sea-dissolved in foam. It's here the last boat rowed
last coffin corpse. We reaped the death we owed.
Ruins so old that cypresses a grove
have grown. The island was not always there
the water rose around it. Stone scoured bare
of signs and busy windows. Some force stove
and sheared the sides away. A city stood
this is the last. One day it will be gone
under the cloud sea. Somewhere there is sun
but it does not shine here. Dark in the wood
some shrine in which veils serve the last faint god
but hardly worship. Hope's gone. Millions trod
streets hundred feet below. The bad the good
dust sea-dissolved in foam. It's here the last boat rowed
last coffin corpse. We reaped the death we owed.