He built a tower for all to see, <br />With sun-washed gardens planted wide. <br />And there with pomp of pageantry, <br />With men-at-arms and minstrelsy <br />And moonbeam ladies fair and free, <br />He revelled in his pride. <br />And there, with soft prayers muttered slow, <br />And wind-blown candles burning low, <br />And hooded mourners row on row, <br />In pomp of peace he died. <br /> <br />Now time forgets how many a sun <br />Above the waste has risen and run <br />Since all the feasts were over and done; <br />Yet still from rusty pinnacle, <br />From cobwebbed pane and broken bell, <br />A wind-voice murmurs: Here am I— <br />'Twas good to live and die; <br />And good to rear these carved stones well <br />'Twixt laboring earth and dreaming sky. <br />And now 'tis good to watch and wait <br />While the slow centuries pass in state, <br />And make old time my glory tell <br />To you who wander by.<br /><br />Harriet Monroe<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-tower-6/
