By Luis G. Dato
Before you rise the portals of your glory,
The marble moulded to your artifice
Your eyes survey the vistas of your triumph,
Your dim, unseeing eyes.
The multitude to strains harmonious hearkens
As to forgotten music heard again,
The many-pinioned rhythm swells and surges
Against your ears in vain.
You hold like airy fancies snatched from
Heaven Frail petals trembling in the summer wind,
And in your gardens of romance are flowers,
Your wound they cannot bind.
Ah, Death is dead and will not hear the clarions
Of fame that claims you for its very own,
You are within your coffin like some Caesar
Prostrate before his throne.