Once thousands gathered at each dawn in spring
Silent at the foot of the colossus,
Rapt, in hopes of hearing his song. For us
Memnon is mute; the statue does not sing.
Oft, if he sang, each heard a different thing;
A clap, a twang of plucked lute, a chorus
Chanting, a chirp of lark, a serpent's hiss;
Yet each departed changed by the blessing.
Now the phoenix is not seen; ruined Delphi
Echoes; no Indic ants sift for gold dust;
King Xerxes' golden sycamore is gone.
The Sybil died alone, as marvels die.
I mourn the lost wonders in an age of rust,
But most of all I long for Memnon's song.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem