Desolation City

And, little town, thy streets for evermore     Will silent be; and not a soul to tell         Why thou art desolate, can e'er return. -John Keats (1795-1821), Ode on a Grecian Urn

Enchanted Desert

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!--prophet still, if bird or devil!-- Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore, Desolate, yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted-- On this home by Horror haunted--tell me truly, I implore-- Is there--is there balm in Gilead?--tell me--tell me, I implore!"         Quoth the raven, "Nevermore." -Edgar Allan Poe (1809-1849), The Raven

Temple of Doom

There open fanes and gaping graves Yawn level with the luminous waves; But not the riches there that lie In each idol's diamond eye-- Not the gaily-jewelled dead Tempt the waters from their bed; For no ripples curl, alas! Along that wilderness of glass-- No swellings tell that winds may be Upon some far-off happier sea-- No heavings hint that winds have been On seas less hideously serene. -Edgar Allan Poe (1809-1849), The City in the Sea

Suffering Ages

Is this the Thing the Lord God made and gave To have dominion over sea and land? To trace the stars and search the heavens for power; To feel the passion of Eternity? Is this the dream He dreamed who shaped the suns And marked their ways upon the ancient deep? Down all the caverns of Hell to their last gulf There is no shape more terrible than this-- More tongued with censure of the world's blind greed-- More filled with signs and portents for the soul-- More packt with danger to the universe. What gulfs between him and the seraphim! Slave of the wheel of labor, what to him Are Plato and the swing of Pleiades? What the long reaches of the peaks of song. The rift of dawn, the reddening of the rose? Through this dread shape the suffering ages look; Time's tragedy is in that aching stoop; Through this dread shape humanity betrayed, Plundered, profaned and disinherited, Cries protest to the Powers that made the world, A protest that is also prophecy. -Edwin Markham (1852-1940), The Man with the Hoe (1899)

Return of Light

O masters, lords and rulers in all lands, Is this the handiwork you give to God, This monstrous thing distorted and soul-quencht? How will you ever straighten up this shape; Touch it again with immortality; Give back the upward looking and the light; Rebuild in it the music and the dreams; Make right the immemorial infamies, Perfidious wrongs, immedicable woes? O masters, lords and rulers in all lands, How will the future reckon with this Man? How answer his brute question in that hour When whirlwinds of rebellion shake all shores? How will it be with kingdoms and with kings-- With those who shaped him to the thing he is-- When this dumb Terror shall rise to judge the world, After the silence of the centuries? -Edwin Markham (1852-1940), The Man with the Hoe (1899)

From Darkness to Light

Lead me from the unreal to the real! Lead me from darkness to light! Lead me from death to immortality! -Brihadaranyaka Upanishad, 800-500 B.C.