It may be, when this city of the nine gates br Is broken down by ruinous old age, br And no one upon any pilgrimage br Comes knocking, no one for an audience waits, br And no bright foraging troop of bandit moods br Rides out on the brave folly of any guest, br But weariness, the restless shadow of rest, br Hoveringly upon the city broods; br It may be, then, that those remembering br And sleepless watchers on the crumbling towers br Shall lose the count of the disastrous hours br Which God may have grown tired of reckoning.