| Lo! |
| death has reared himself throne
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| In a strange city lying alone
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| Far down within the dim west
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| Where the good and the bad
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| And the worst and the best
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| Have gone to their eternal rest.
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| There shrines and palaces and towers
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| Time-eaten towers that tremble not
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| Resemble nothing that is ours
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| Around, by lifting winds forgot
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| Resignedly beneath the sky
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| The melancholy waters lie.
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| No rays from the holy heaven come down
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| On the long night-time of that town
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| But light from out the lurid sea
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| Streams up the turrets silently
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| Gleams up the pinnacles far and free
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| Up domes, up spires, up kingly halls
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| Up fanes, up Babylon, like walls
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| Up shadowy long-forgotten bowers
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| Of sculptured ivy and stone flowers.
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| Up many and many a marvellous shrine
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| Whose wreathed friezes intertwine
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| The viol, the violet and the vine
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| Resignedly beneath the sky
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| The melancholy waters lie
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| So blend the turrets and shadows there
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| That all seem pendulous in air
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| While from a proud tower in the town
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| Death looks gigantically down.
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| There open fanes and gaping graves
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| Yawn level with luminous waves
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| But not the riches there that lie
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| In each idol’s diamond eye
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| Not the gaily-jewelled dead
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| Tempt the waters from their bed
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| For no ripples curl, alas!
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| Along that wilderness of glass
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| No swellings tell that winds may be
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| Upon some far-off happier sea
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| No heavings hint winds have been
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| On seas less hideously serene.
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| But lo! |
| a stir in the air
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| The wave, there is a movement there
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| As if towers had thrust aside
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| In slightly sinking the dull tide
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| As if their tops had feebly given
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| A void within the filmy heaven.
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| The waves have now a redder glow
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| The hours are breathing faint and low
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| And when, amid no earthly moans
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| Down, down that town shall settle hence
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| Hell, rising from a thousand thrones
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| Shall do it reverence. |