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How?

Thy word flies past me, being incredible.

Ilion is ours. No riddling tale I tell.

Such joy comes knocking at the gate of tears.

Aye, 'tis a faithful heart that eye declares.

What warrant hast thou? Is there proof of this?

There is; unless a God hath lied there is.

Some dream-shape came to thee in speaking guise?

Who deemeth me a dupe of drowsing eyes?

Some word within that hovereth without wings?

Am I a child to hearken to such things?

Troy fallen?—But how long? When fell she, say?