Classic Poem

Come, look at the treasures of Kurium spread
In the light of the sun. From the dust of the dead
They are lifted at last, and they blaze as of old,
These vials and vases and trinkets of gold.

They are parts of the stories of temple and tomb,
And they bided their time in the silence and gloom;
While flesh that was mortal would molder away,
They flashed in defiance of time and decay.

These rubies are priceless, and red as the blood
Of women who wore them when life was at flood;
O maidens of Cyprus, and daughters of Kings;
What secrets are these that are traced in the rings?

What soft, slender throat did this necklace adorn?
Was it love's trembling gift in the world's early morn?
Speak low in this place, for they do not forget;
Some love that could die not may cling to it yet.

Thou “King Etevander,” with story untold;
Didst offer Astarte these armlets of gold?
O'er-wearied with splendor, a boon didst thou crave?
Was it peace on the earth? Was it rest in the grave?

What strange fire was lit in these vases of glass?
It burns unconsuming as centuries pass;
What rainbows were melted and poured in the mold?
What flash of Auroras? What sunsets of gold?

These tear-bottles here which are dry as the dust,
Were once overflowing, their owners, we trust
Behold them with wonder, and smile as they say,
Were they ours? Did we weep when so brief was our stay?

Rich wreckage is this, which has come on the crest
Of billows that roll from the east to the west;
With hints of old sorrow, and splendor, and pride,
It is linking the souls which the ages divide.

Come, look at the treasures of Kurium spread
In the light of the sun. From the dust of the dead
They are lifted at last, and they blaze as of old,
These vials and vases and trinkets of gold.

They are parts of the stories of temple and tomb,
And they bided their time in the silence and gloom;
While flesh that was mortal would molder away,
They flashed in defiance of time and decay.

These rubies are priceless, and red as the blood
Of women who wore them when life was at flood;
O maidens of Cyprus, and daughters of Kings;
What secrets are these that are traced in the rings?

What soft, slender throat did this necklace adorn?
Was it love's trembling gift in the world's early morn?
Speak low in this place, for they do not forget;
Some love that could die not may cling to it yet.

Thou “King Etevander,” with story untold;
Didst offer Astarte these armlets of gold?
O'er-wearied with splendor, a boon didst thou crave?
Was it peace on the earth? Was it rest in the grave?

What strange fire was lit in these vases of glass?
It burns unconsuming as centuries pass;
What rainbows were melted and poured in the mold?
What flash of Auroras? What sunsets of gold?

These tear-bottles here which are dry as the dust,
Were once overflowing, their owners, we trust
Behold them with wonder, and smile as they say,
Were they ours? Did we weep when so brief was our stay?

Rich wreckage is this, which has come on the crest
Of billows that roll from the east to the west;
With hints of old sorrow, and splendor, and pride,
It is linking the souls which the ages divide.