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| Tezcotzinco / Alan Seeger |
Though thou art now
a ruin bare and cold,
Thou wert sometime
the garden of a king.
The birds have sought
a lovelier place to sing.
The flowers are few.
It was not so of old.
It was not thus when
hand in hand there strolled
Through arbors perfumed
with undying Spring
Bare bodies beautiful,
brown, glistening,
Decked with green plumes
and rings of yellow gold.
Do you suppose the herdsman
sometimes hears
Vague echoes borne
beneath the moon's pale ray
From those old, old,
far-off, forgotten years?
Who knows? Here where
his ancient kings held sway
He stands. Their names are
strangers to his ears.
Even their memory has passed away.
Tezcotzinco / Alan Seeger
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