Cold Song

A vision

Two crownèd kings, and one that stood alone

With no green weight of laurels round his head

But with sad eyes as one uncomforted

And wearied with man’s never-ceasing moan

For sins no bleating victim can atone

And sweet long lips with tears and kisses fed

Girt was he in a garment black and red

And at his feet I marked a broken stone

Which sent up lilies, dove-like, to his knees

Now at their sight, my heart being lit with flame

I cried to beatricé, “who are these?”

And she made answer, knowing well each name

“Æschylos first, the second sophokles

And last (wide stream of tears!) euripides”