A Vision


Two crownèd Kings, and One that stood alone 
     With no green weight of laurels round his head, 
    But with sad eyes as one uncomforted, 
And wearied with man’s never-ceasing moan 
For 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 stone 
    Which 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, 
    “Aeschylos first, the second Sophokles, 
    And last (wide stream of tears!) Euripides.” 


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