Lemnos! Lemnos! Thine enfolding arms
Have held too much, they patterned hills are over shorn
Of all their one-time freshness. Loud alarms
And trampling tread have left thee stained and torn,
Oh, gone those bleating lambs! Those grinding mills!
Those smiles of peace that were thy constant joy.
Hast gathered to thyself too much those ills
And pains smoke-fouled from off the plain of Troy.
Which, bruised and bloody in its modernness,
And wet with tears, as those Achilles shed
For Patroclus, has spoiled thy loveliness.
And housed thy bosom with its wear dead.
Lemnos! There are those who still can trace
Soft lines of beauty on thy dusty face.