Page:The poems of Robert W. Sterling, 1916.djvu/29

The Burial of Sophocles 'Twas thus, that, ere the arrows of the dawn

First shot the peaks of clear Pentelicus

With the day's golden promise, we had drawn

Nigh to the house of death and girded us

With the dim livery of the funeral:

A small, sad band, whom love or blood allow'd

To tend the dead; while vexing the repose

Of stars, who listening all

Peered through a shifting curtain of frail cloud,

Like a wild song the women's wailing rose.

Slowly we brought him forth—can I forget?—

And soft adown the lantern-hemmèd street

Parted the throngs who paid their pious debt

Of patient watching and of reverence meet.

And there were sudden tears and murmurs faint

And floating cries upon the midnight air,—

Not that they grudg'd him death, nor would importune

The gods in idle plaint:

''But oh! he went'' (their burthen of despair)—

Athens' last light—in Athens' darkest fortune!

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