The urn embraced the terracotta tiles

And split asunder ‘midst a thunderous crash;

The matron swept in, pale and sorely riled—

Cacophony transformed to face aghast.

Beneath that plinth lay history and time,

Rude-ravaged murals, gods and mortal men,

Silent imagined pipings reft of rhyme

That to dear spirits shall ne’er play again.

What now to say unto the baroness?

Wrought prize of truth and beauty razed to ruin,

All happy happiness now tears and dust;

Shorn boughs to finally bid their Spring adieu.

“No Grecian ode redeems this shattered mass,

Sweep up the shards, dear maid—such things don’t last”