Image result for ruins in painting

With my cold grammar

I build my poems; their architecture

Pleases me, and when houses and cities fall,

These poems will survive them all.

After the kisses, and the words spoken,

Comes death. But the speech of my poems will not be broken.

Clever carpenters build in wood.

I smile, and admire the chairs, and say the finish is good;

When I tour the castle, I will be amazed;

When I tour the ruins, and put a penny in the cup

Of the dying, beside a castle razed,

I will smile, and be a little less amazed.

All these emotions, and this living, and these solid things

Will never be found in what eternally sings,

Will never be found in this, already old,

And triumphant, because it is so cold.



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