Failure. Because God put His adamantine fate. Between my sullen heart and its desire, I swore that I would burst the Iron Gate, Rise up, and curse Him on His throne of fire. Earth shuddered at my crown of blasphemy, But Love was as a flame about my feet; Proud up the Golden Stair I strode; and beat. Thrice on the Gate, and entered with a cry --All the great courts were quiet in the sun, And full of vacant echoes: moss had grown. Over the glassy pavement, and begun. To creep within the dusty council-halls. An idle wind blew round an empty throne. And stirred the heavy curtains on the walls.
Rupert BrookeAbout author
- Author's profession: Poet
- Nationality: english
- Born: August 3, 1887
- Died: April 23, 1915
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