Classic Poem

O sunk in surge of purple, it is told
how thy hot hand was heavy o'er the world,
belying the fair troth of thy impearl'd
Orient, and thy gracious van of gold:

and thee, once Moloch infamous or old
Kronos, who knows if ever, radiant-curl'd,
thou didst abash the chaos, seeing thee hurl'd
by crouching hate to join the sullen mould.

Now is the shrouded hour, and the gray mood
o'er the all-pervasive and vain grave may brood,
or yet again the circling torch begin,

if all the ends of hope in dawning eyes
be this, prestige of undecipher'd sin,
his grisly shade, gaunt upon vacant skies.