Broken Idol

ACROSS a limitless and antic plain
Rolled a fat dog, with dry and lolling tongue,
Panting for shelter or a drop of rain.
And in some temple, where he roamed among

The shards of columns, lay a trunkless head
Of godling long forgotten. This he sniffed.
Whereon it oped its carven mouth, and said,
“Who nuzzles me? Brings he some precious gift,

Tongue of young calf, fresh sizzled on a fire,
Or gem for my adorning? Let him know
None nears me now to pray for his desire;
Old god am I, grown powerless long ago;

These are sad acres, thankless and accurst.”
The dog heard none of this, for he had found
A freshet near; and there he quenched his thirst,
And waddled off, across the holy ground.