THE FOURFOLD ASPECT.
251
Telling why the statues droop
Underneath the churchyard trees,
And how ye must lie beneath them,
Through the winters long and deep,
Till the last trump overbreathe them,
And ye smile out of your sleep . . .
Oh ye lifted up your head, and it seemed as if they said
A tale of fairy ships
With a swan-wing for a sail!—
Oh, ye kissed their loving lips
For the merry, merry tale!—
So carelessly ye thought upon the Dead.
Underneath the churchyard trees,
And how ye must lie beneath them,
Through the winters long and deep,
Till the last trump overbreathe them,
And ye smile out of your sleep . . .
Oh ye lifted up your head, and it seemed as if they said
A tale of fairy ships
With a swan-wing for a sail!—
Oh, ye kissed their loving lips
For the merry, merry tale!—
So carelessly ye thought upon the Dead.
Soon ye read in solemn stories
Of the men of long ago—
Of the pale bewildering glories
Shining farther than we know,—
Of the heroes with the laurel,
Of the poets with the bay,
Of the two worlds' earnest quarrel
For that beauteous Helena,
How Achilles at the portal
Of the tent, heard footsteps nigh
And his strong heart, half-immortal,
Met the keitai with a cry,—
How Ulysses left the sunlight
For the pale eidola race,
Blank and passive through the dun light,
Staring blindly on his face!
How that true wife said to Pœtus,
With calm smile and wounded heart,—
"Sweet, it hurts not!"—how Admetus
Saw his blessed one depart!—
How King Arthur proved his mission,—
And Sir Boland wound his horn,—
And at Sangreal's moony vision
Swords did bristle round like corn,—
Of the men of long ago—
Of the pale bewildering glories
Shining farther than we know,—
Of the heroes with the laurel,
Of the poets with the bay,
Of the two worlds' earnest quarrel
For that beauteous Helena,
How Achilles at the portal
Of the tent, heard footsteps nigh
And his strong heart, half-immortal,
Met the keitai with a cry,—
How Ulysses left the sunlight
For the pale eidola race,
Blank and passive through the dun light,
Staring blindly on his face!
How that true wife said to Pœtus,
With calm smile and wounded heart,—
"Sweet, it hurts not!"—how Admetus
Saw his blessed one depart!—
How King Arthur proved his mission,—
And Sir Boland wound his horn,—
And at Sangreal's moony vision
Swords did bristle round like corn,—
