Etruscan Tombs
O rude attempt of some long-spent despair—
With symbol and with emblem discontent—
To keep the dead alive and as they were,
The actual features and the glance that went!
The anguish of your art was not in vain,
For lo, upon these alien shelves removed
The sad immortal images remain,
And show that once they lived and once you loved
But oh, when I am dead may none for me
Invoke so drear an immortality!
iii.
Beneath the branches of the olive yard
Are roots where cyclamen and violet grow;
Beneath the roots the earth is deep and hard.
And there a king was buried long ago.
The peasants digging deeply in the mould
Cast up the autumn soil about the place.
And saw a gleam of unexpected gold.
And underneath the earth a living face.
With sleeping lids and rosy lips he lay.
Among the wreaths and gems that mark the king,
One moment; then a little dust and clay
Fell shrivelled over wreath and urn and ring.
A carven slab recalls his name and deeds,
Writ in. a language no man living reads.
iv.
Here lies the tablet graven in the past,
Clear-charactered and firm and fresh of line.
See, not a word is gone; and yet how fast
The secret no man living may divine!
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