Nemesis

All things must fade. There is for cities tall

The same tomorrow as for daffodils:

Time's wind, that casts the seed, the petal spills.

Grim London's ruined arches yet shall fall

Back to the arms of Earth. A quiet pall

The mother draws over those she loves—and kills;

And though brief nations vaunt their upstart wills,

The nemesis of grass shall cover all.

So—from a caravan to Mecca bound

Getting no more than one incurious glance—

Tremendous Babylon, thrice-girt with walls,

Sick of her thousand years of arrogance,

With a few tamarisks upon a mound

Her epigraph upon the desert scrawls.