Upon the stones. And oleanders grow
Where, in the night, the mourning jackals go
A-prowl through temples of a god unsung.
And so she stands, and centuries have kept
Her olden secret, tragic or sublime;
Without her gates, what tides of men have swept,
Within her portals, race of kings have slept?
This “rose-red city, half as old as Time.”
Was there no poet’s voice to chant her pride,
To clarion her magic down the years?