The Empty Hills

The grandeur of deep afternoons, The pomp of haze on marble hills, Where every white-walled villa swoons Through violence that heat fulfills, Pass tirelessly and more alone Than kings that time has laid aside. Safe on their massive sea of stone The empty tufted gardens ride. Here is no music, where the air Drives slowly through the airy leaves. Meaning is aimless motion where The sinking humming bird conceives. No book nor picture has inlaid This life with darkened gold, but here Men passionless and dumb invade A quiet that entrances fear.