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!
Argos, 1877