The shreds and shards of poetry we find
From ancient Greece are like the battered heads
On ruined statuary, both aligned
With code breaking and loss, all tattered threads
Of ragged tapestries preserved in sand,
The dunes of shifting chance. The shattered face
And broken limb of stone forbid the bland
Assessment of mere beauty. Crippled grace
Strides stronger through the mind and heart. The lines
Of partial words or partial muscles tease
And torture us. These gaps in the designs
That we will never savour heal and please.
But which is worse? The ruination of
The words or biceps? Neither. They are love.
This is a very nice way to look back at ancient history