Page:Ethel Churchill Fragments II.pdf/33



The presence of perpetual change Is ever on the earth; To-day is only as the soil That gives to-morrow birth.

Where stood the tower, there grows the weed; Where stood the weed, the tower: No present hour its likeness leaves To any future hour.

Of each imperial city built Far on the Eastern plains, A desert waste of tomb and sand Is all that now remains.

Our own fair city filled with life, Has yet a future day, When power, and might, and majesty, Will yet have passed away.