Page:The poems of Robert W. Sterling, 1916.djvu/34

The Burial of Sophocles Ah! Master, when the blast uproots a tree,

Its form lies bedded—but a god beneath

Treasures its leaves and perish'd fragrancy

To pierce anew the pregnant soils of death:

So from thy poetry, thy spirit-tomb,

Shall burgeon wealth of tears and tenderness

And beauty, when forgotten is this pit

And drain'd is Athens' doom

Come, leave his body, friends, to Earth's caress.—

Oh, lightly, lightly. Earth, encompass it! 12