Nemesis By Arthur Henry Adams

All things must fade. There is for cities tall
The same tomorrow as for daffodils:
Time’s wind, that casts the seed, the petal spills.
Grim London’s ruined arches yet shall fall
Back to the arms of Earth. A quiet pall
The mother draws over those she loves–and kills;
And though brief nations vaunt their upstart wills,
The nemesis of grass shall cover all.
So–from a caravan to Mecca bound
Getting no more than one incurious glance–
Tremendous Babylon, thrice-girt with walls,
Sick of her thousand years of arrogance,
With a few tamarisks upon a mound
Her epigraph upon the desert scrawls.