To Eleonora Duse In "The Dead City"

by Sara Teasdale

　　

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Were you a Greek when all the world was young, Before the weary years that pass and pass, Had scattered all the temples on the grass, Before the moss to marble columns clung? I think your snowy tunic must have hung As now your gown does, wave on wave a mass Of woven water. As within a glass I see your face when Homer's tales were sung. Alcaeus kissed your mouth and found it sweet, And Sappho's hand has lingered in your hand. You half remember Lesbos as you stand Where all the times and countries mix and meet, And lay your weight of beauty at our feet, A garland gathered in a distant land.

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