Lycabettus
Lycabett at every steep street’s ending
Is there
Surprising the eyes, and ascending
Aloof, pointed bare
Into the bluest blue
That ever the live light
Poured pulsing through.
O spiring, tawny—caverned, crested white,
Pine—skirted Lycabett!
Lifting above spread roofs this craggy height,
What have you to do
With the sprawled city’s modern swarm and hum,
You that have seen the ages go and come
From the first sun—rise to the last sun—set?
When Athens wore her wondrous bloom,
Her dateless violet,
You had no ornament nor dress;
And who had eyes for you?—
Wild earth, rude rock,
What history? Only solitariness.
