Poems (Linn)/Garden of Cluny
GARDEN OF CLUNY.
HE who stands in Cluny's garden, In the city of the Seine,Ivied towers rising round him Darkened by the century's stain—
Sees beneath his feet a pavement Worn by chariot-wheels that whirledTo their wars, men whose ambitions Made the history of the world.
There beneath a pile of granite Honey-combed by many a year,Is the grave of one whose history Reads: "A Roman lieth here."
Who or what, no fable tells us, Man or woman, king or slave;All of life summed in the sentence: "This an ancient Roman's grave."
All the glory now forgotten, All the sorrow, all the joy;Was he conqueror or conquered? Fortune's tool or fortune's toy?
Or, a woman? whose great beauty Held an emperor in thrall;In whose bosom raged the passions Which make nations rise or fall.
What to-day is all that glory? What those battles' loss or gain?What are passions and their power? What are love and hate and pain?
Only this—though man or woman, One great battle had been fought,One great, valiant, bloodless struggle, For some pure exalted thought.
Fought the fight as we must fight it, In the Spirit's mighty name,Held within their soul the victory, Bore within their soul the shame.
He is greatest who best conquers; All beside is slow decay;Nameless tomb, forgotten splendor, As the ages whirl away.
And the balance hangs forever Just between soul-loss and gain;Good still fights the war with Evil In the city on the Seine.