The Theatre at Argos

Nettles and poppy mar each rock-hewn sea No poet crowned with olive deathlessly Chants his glad song, nor clamorous Tragedy Startles the air; green corn is waving sweet Where once the Chorus danced to measures fleet; Far to the East a purple sea, The cliffs of gold that prisoned Danae; And desecrated Argos at my feet.

No season now to mourn the days of old, A nation’s shipwreck on the rocks of Time, Or the dread storms of all-devouring Fate. For now the peoples clamor at our gate, The world is full of plague and sin and crime, And God Himself is half-dethroned for Gold!