Here, peradventure, in this mirror glassed, <br />Who gazes long and well at times beholds <br />Some sunken feature of the mummied Past, <br />But oftener only the embroidered folds <br />And soiled magnificence of her rent robe <br />Whose tattered skirts are ruined dynasties <br />That sweep the dust of æons in our eyes <br />And with their trailing pride cumber the globe.- <br />For lo! the high, imperial Past is dead: <br />The air is full of its dissolvèd bones; <br />Invincible armies long since vanquishèd, <br />Kings that remember not their awful thrones, <br />Powerless potentates and foolish sages, <br />Impede the slow steps of the pompous ages.<br /><br />William Watson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/history-48/
