You dull, cold thing, reflecting naught of light,

Of warmth or feeling, or of time or space,

Well-nigh two thousand years have left no trace

Of all the lovely things have met your sight.

Your patina-filmed surface, once so bright,

Now rough and pock-marked, like a beggar’s face,

How many times has imaged maiden’s grace

While dark-eyed beauty questioned were all right.

How many times upon your burnished round

Has timid bride gazed, tremulous yet glad,

And wondered – would the gods be harsh or kind?

How many times – but ah, you hold tight-bound

Within your heart of bronze, both gay and sad

The secrets that we look in vain to find.