Be still. The Hanging Gardens were a dream <br />That over Persian roses flew to kiss <br />The curled lashes of Semiramis. <br />Troy never was, nor green Skamander stream. <br />Provence and Troubadour are merest lies, <br />The glorious hair of Venice was a beam <br />Made within Titian's eye. The sunsets seem, <br />The world is very old and nothing is. <br />Be still. Thou foolish thing, thou canst not wake, <br />Nor thy tears wedge thy soldered lids apart, <br />But patter in the darkness of thy heart. <br />Thy brain is plagued. Thou art a frighted owl <br />Blind with the light of life thou'ldst not forsake, <br />And Error loves and nourishes thy soul.<br /><br />Trumbull Stickney<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/be-still-the-hanging-gardens-were-a-dream/
