Greek Theatre
White circle of wide rising steps open under the sun,
A bowl half filled with rhythmic measure of form.
This is your home, O poem of grave balanced speech,
O chorus of sonorous ringing words, this is your home.
The light is the light of your eloquence left in the clear air.
Nor winds have blown it asunder, nor the long storm
Of ages scattered it. The shape of Attic perfection walks there,
Beneath the twin columns, across the wide stones.
Slowly in rhythmic movement it walks forever, O poem.
A bowl half filled with rhythmic measure of form.
This is your home, O poem of grave balanced speech,
O chorus of sonorous ringing words, this is your home.
The light is the light of your eloquence left in the clear air.
Nor winds have blown it asunder, nor the long storm
Of ages scattered it. The shape of Attic perfection walks there,
Beneath the twin columns, across the wide stones.
Slowly in rhythmic movement it walks forever, O poem.
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