Guide Into the Ruins. Poems.

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And such plenty and perfection, see, of grass Never was!

Ruins Poems - Poems For Ruins - - Poem by | Poem Hunter

Such a carpet as, this summer-time, o'erspreads And embeds Every vestige of the city, guessed alone, Stock or stone Where a multitude of men breathed joy and woe Long ago; Lust of glory pricked their hearts up, dread of shame Struck them tame; And that glory and that shame alike, the gold Bought and sold. Now,the single little turret that remains On the plains, By the caper overrooted, by the gourd Overscored, While the patching houseleek's head of blossom winks Through the chinks Marks the basement whence a tower in ancient time Sprang sublime, And a burning ring, all round, the chariots traced As they raced, And the monarch and his minions and his dames Viewed the games.

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And I know, while thus the quiet-coloured eve Smiles to leave To their folding, all our many-tinkling fleece In such peace, And the slopes and rills in undistinguished grey Melt away That a girl with eager eyes and yellow hair Waits me there In the turret whence the charioteers caught soul For the goal, When the king looked, where she looks now, breathless, dumb Till I come. But he looked upon the city, every side, Far and wide, All the mountains topped with temples, all the glades' Colonnades, All the causeys, bridges, aqueducts,and then, All the men!

When I do come, she will speak not, she will stand, Either hand On my shoulder, give her eyes the first embrace Of my face, Ere we rush, ere we extinguish sight and speech Each on each. In one year they sent a million fighters forth South and North, And they built their gods a brazen pillar high As the sky, Yet reserved a thousand chariots in full force Gold, of course.

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Earth's returns For whole centuries of folly, noise and sin! Shut them in, With their triumphs and their glories and the rest!

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This is a very thoughtful poem, reflecting on the follies of power and the illusions of human greatness. All things must pass. This was just plain awful. Stilted and pretentious without even a modicum of original intelligence.

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  • He tries so hard to sound intellectual, whatever his deeper message is, gets completely obscured by it. There's a problem loading this menu right now. Get fast, free shipping with Amazon Prime. Your recently viewed items and featured recommendations. View or edit your browsing history.

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    This fashion began in the midth century in gardens like those at Stowe House and reached a tragic climax of sorts during the Irish potato famine, when landlords employed their starving tenants to build follies on their estates as a form of relief work. Of course, other landlords had somewhat different experiences of ruined buildings. When Byron inherited his family home at Newstead Abbey it was quite literally a pile, with only a few rooms habitable. He sold up and his poem On Leaving Newstead Abbey reflects the ruinous condition of the building he left behind.

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    July 13, has no interest in coming to grips with the remains of the building in the title. The statue of the king has all the attributes of the ideal Romantic ruin. It sits in splendid isolation, far from any trace of modern civilisation, its stones scattered around waiting for a mind sensitive enough to reassemble it in imagination and hear its message. Italian sunshine would appear to have had a salutatory effect on the mind of Robert Browning.

    In his poem Love Among the Ruins , Browning used the idea of an almost entirely lost city to contrast the urban and the rural, the life of the mass and the life of the individual, war and love.