This is not Carthage, these are but her stones
That rise above the circle of the sea.
What men call Troy and Carthage could not be
A desolation and forgotten bones,
For these live on like some immortal word
Told in a legend we cannot forget
Of queens who loved, of those whose battles yet
Stir us with dreams of what we have not heard.
This is not Carthage, though her ancient name
Lingers about the broken citadel.
Dust in the red tombs are the ones who fell
When what was beauty passed away in flame.
And yet, perchance, upon some greater hill
The wonder that was Carthage rises still. . .