The rich Will make temples for Siva what shall I, a poor man, do? My legs are pillars, the body the shrine, the head the cupola of gold, Listen, O! Lord: Standing things shall fall, that which moves shall stay
A mighty mass of brick, and smoke, and shipping, Dirty and dusty, but as wide as eye Could reach, with here and there a sail just skipping In sight, then lost amidst the forestry Of masts; a wilderness of steeples peeping On tiptoe through their sea-coal canopy; A huge, dun cupola, like a foolscap crown On a fool's head and there is London Town.lord byron
Create and save customized flash cards. Sign up today and start improving your vocabulary!