The pines have no voice this ineffable hour,
The sea and the Dome shine through wavering gold;
Here, where stood temple and palace and tower,
Shadows and grass lie in fold over fold,

Hiding meek hearts that were masterful, living;
Hiding mute lips that were loud with complaint;
Mother of all, is it scorn or forgiving
That covers so tenderly sinner and saint?

Mountains keep watch like strong angels of pity;
Mist on the plain lies more light than a kiss;
Eyes that were dust before Rome was a city,
Eyes that love brightened, saw these, yet not this.

Not the same wonder, not the same glory,
Other, not lovelier, sunset and morn;
Neither can thought find an end to the story
Of youth for whose rapture the world is newborn.