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Poem by Katharine Lee Bates
Grim stones whose gray lips keep your secret well, Our hands that touch you touch an ancient terror, An ancient woe, colossal citadel Of some fierce faith, some heaven-affronting error. Rude-built, as if young Titans on this wold Once played with ponderous blocks a striding giant Had brought from oversea, till child more bold Tumbled their temple down with foot defiant. Upon your fatal altar Redbreast combs A fluttering plume, and flocks of eager swallows Dip fearlessly to choose their April homes Amid your crevices and storm-beat hollows. Even so in elemental mysteries, Portentous, vast, august, uncomprehended, Do we dispose our little lives for ease, By their unconscious courtesies befriended.
Katharine Lee Bates
Katharine Lee Bates's other poems:
English Poetry. E-mail firstname.lastname@example.org