Classic Poem

I wrought them like a targe of hammered gold
On which all Troy is battling round and round;
Or Circe's cup, embossed with snakes that wound
Through buds and myrtles, fold on scaly fold;

Or like gold coins, which Lydian tombs may hold,
Stamped with winged racers, in the old red ground;
Or twined gold armlets from the funeral mound
Of some great viking, terrible of old.

I know not in what metal I have wrought,
Nor whether what I fashion will be thrust
Beneath the clods that hide forgotten thought;

But if it is of gold it will not rust;
And when the time is ripe it will be brought
Into the sun, and glitter through its dust.