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By Eleanor Rogers Cox

Dreaming of cities dead,

Of bright Queens vanished,

Of kings whose names were but as seed wind-blown

E’en when white Patrick’s voice shook Tara’s throne,

My way along the great world-street I tread,

And keep the rites of Beauty lost, alone.

Cairns level with the dust—

Names dim with Time’s dull rust—

Afar they sleep on many a wind-swept hill,

The beautiful, the strong of heart and will—

On whose pale dreams no sunrise joy shall burst,

No harper’s song shall pierce with battle-thrill.

Long from their purpled heights,

Their reign of high delights,

The Queens have wended down Death’s mildewed stair,

Leaving a scent of lilies on the air,

To gladden Earth through all her days and nights,

That once she cherished anything so fair.