The Theatre At Argos
By Oscar Wilde
Nettles and poppy mar each rock-hewn seat:
No poet crowned with olive deathlessly
Chants his glad song, nor clamorous Tragedy
Startles the air; green corn is waving sweet
Where once the Chorus danced to measures fleet;
Far to the East a purple stretch of sea,
The cliffs of gold that prisoned Danae;
And desecrated Argos at my feet.
No season now to mourn the days of old,
A nation’s shipwreck on the rocks of Time,
Or the dread storms of all-devouring Fate,
For now the peoples clamour at our gate,
The world is full of plague and sin and crime,
And God Himself is half-dethroned for Gold!
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