A VISION
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WO crownèd Kings, and One that stood aloneWith no green weight of laurels round his head,But with sad eyes as one uncomforted,And wearied with man’s never-ceasing moanFor sins no bleating victim can atone,And sweet long lips with tears and kisses fed.Girt was he in a garment black and red,And at his feet I marked a broken stoneWhich sent up lilies, dove-like, to his knees.Now at their sight, my heart being lit with flame,I cried to Beatricé, ‘Who are these?’And she made answer, knowing well each name,‘Æschylos first, the second Sophokles,And last (wide stream of tears!) Euripides.’
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