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All things must fade. There is for cities tall
The same tomorrow as for daffodils:
Time's wind, that casts the seed, the petal spills.
Grim London's ruined arches yet shall fall
Back to the arms of Earth. A quiet pall
The mother draws over those she loves--and kills;
And though brief nations vaunt their upstart wills,
The nemesis of grass shall cover all.
So--from a caravan to Mecca bound
Getting no more than one incurious glance--
Tremendous Babylon, thrice-girt with walls,
Sick of her thousand years of arrogance,
With a few tamarisks upon a mound
Her epigraph upon the desert scrawls.
Arthur H Adams
Read poems about / on: london, sick, mother, wind, time, city
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