Classic Poem

No echo of man's life pursues my ears;
Nothing disputes this Desolation's reign;
Change comes not this dread temple to profane,
Where time by aeons reckons, not by years.
Its patient form one crag, sole stranded, rears,
Type of whate'er is destined to remain
While yon still host encamped on night's waste plain
Keeps armed watch, a million glittering spears.

Hushed are the wild and wing'd lives of the moor;
The sleeping sheep nestle 'neath ruined wall,
Or unhewn stones in random concourse hurled:
Solitude, sleepless, listens at Fate's door;
And there is built and 'stablisht over all,
Tremendous silence, older than the world.