Fallen pile! I ask not what has been thy fate; <br />But when the winds, slow wafted from the main, <br />Through each rent arch, like spirits that complain, <br />Come hollow to my ear, I meditate <br />On this world's passing pageant, and the lot <br />Of those who once majestic in their prime <br />Stood smiling at decay, till bowed by time <br />Or injury, their early boast forgot, <br />They may have fallen like thee! Pale and forlorn, <br />Their brow, besprent with thin hairs, white as snow, <br />They lift, still unsubdued, as they would scorn <br />This short-lived scene of vanity and woe; <br />Whilst on their sad looks smilingly they bear <br />The trace of creeping age, and the pale hue of care!<br /><br />William Lisle Bowles<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/netley-abbey/
