DESTROYER OF SHIPS, MEN, CITIES
For mute is battle's brazen horn
That rang for Priest and King;
And she who drank of that brave morn
Is pale with evening.
An hour there is when bright words flow,
A little hour for sleep,
An hour between, when lights are low,
And then she seems to weep.
But no less lovely than of old
She shines, and almost hears
The horns that blew in days of gold,
The shouting charioteers.
And still she breaks the hearts of men,
Their hearts, and all their pride,
Doomed to be cruel once again,
And live dissatisfied.
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