Classic Poem

Dolmen and menhirs in mute conclave met,
Draped in old centuries, bearded by gray Time
With stain of hoar-like hues, and by frost carved
Into the likeness of mortality—
Here stand they, lean or stoop here, sunk in turf
That yesterday was dust and will to-morrow
Be dust upheaved anew by the blind mole.
The tides of Time have whelmed and lapsed and whelmed
And lapsed, past backward reckoning; while still
Mortal half puts on immortality
And sense is all confused in ageless age.
But what they muse on, stony frozen Gods,
I can but dream;—whether they breathe rebellion
Against locality and death-in-life,
Whether they pine at too-quick-passing age,
Or whether, seeing the nimble race of men
Oaring the sea and winds, and delving earth,
They covet even man's fierce and dizzy pangs,
The lusts that burn him and renew his life
Forever and forever, while they stand
Earth-rooted, tricked by Time in ancient guise.
Of this they speak not save in unknown tongues
Known to each other may be but none beside.
And the sun dances lightly on the sea
And fleet clouds chase the sun, and early stars
Follow the dusk, and the transitory moon
Hangs like a white Owl over the highest Stone
A moment, and then flutters after the stars.