| |
|
When first
that horse, within whose populous womb
The birth was
death, o'ershadowed Troy with fate,
Her elders,
dubious of its Grecian freight,
Brought Helen there
to sing the songs of home;
She whispered, "Friends, I
am alone; come, come!"
Then, crouched within, Ulysses
waxed afraid,
And on his comrades' quivering mouths
he laid
His hands and held them till the voice was
dumb.
The same was he who, lashed to his own
mast,
There where the sea-flowers screen the
charnel-caves,
Beside the Sirens' singing island
passed,
Till sweetness failed along the inveterate
waves...
Say, soul, -are songs of Death no heaven to
thee,
Nor shames her lip the cheek of Victory?
|
|
|
