Babylon

If you could bring her glories back!     You gentle sirs who sift the dust     And burrow in the mould and must     Of Babylon for bric-a-brac;     Who catalogue and pigeon-hole     The faded splendours of her soul     And put her greatness under glass -     If you could bring her past to pass!     If you could bring her dead to life!     The soldier lad; the market wife;     Madam buying fowls from her;     Tip, the butcher's bandy cur;     Workmen carting bricks and clay;     Babel passing to and fro     On the business of a day     Gone three thousand years ago -     That you cannot; then be done,     Put the goblet down again,     Let the broken arch remain,     Leave the dead men's dust alone -     Is it nothing how she lies,     This old mother of you all,     You great cities proud and tall     Towering to a hundred skies     Round a world she never knew,     Is it nothing, this, to you?     Must the ghoulish work go on     Till her very floors are gone?     While there's still a brick to save     Drive these people from her grave.     The Jewish seer when he cried     Woe to Babel's lust and pride     Saw the foxes at her gates;     Once again the wild thing waits.     Then leave her in her last decay     A house of owls, a foxes' den;     The desert that till yesterday     Hid her from the eyes of men     In its proper time and way     Will take her to itself again.