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.