30
THE THOUGHT OF ASTYANAX BESIDE IüLUS.
. . . Must I for sorrow look so far?
This baby headed like a star,
Afraid of Hector's horse-hair plume
(His one sweet child, whose bitter doom
So piteous seems—oh, tears and tears!—)
Has he been dust three thousand years?
This baby headed like a star,
Afraid of Hector's horse-hair plume
(His one sweet child, whose bitter doom
So piteous seems—oh, tears and tears!—)
Has he been dust three thousand years?
Yet when I see his mother fold
The pretty cloak she stitched with gold
Around another boy, and say:
"He would be just your age to-day,
With just your hands, your eyes, your hair"—
Her grief is more than I can bear.
The pretty cloak she stitched with gold
Around another boy, and say:
"He would be just your age to-day,
With just your hands, your eyes, your hair"—
Her grief is more than I can bear.
