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THE BURIAL OF SOPHOCLES

There Heracles with peaceful foot shall press The springing herbage, and Hephæstus strong,Hera and Aphrodite's loveliness, And the great giver of the choric song.
And thither, after weary pilgrimage, From unknown lands beyond the hoary wave,Shall travellers through every coming age Approach to pluck a blossom from his grave:Some in the flush of youth, or in the prime, Whose life is still as heapèd gold to spend,And some who have drunk deep of grief and time, And who yet linger half-afraid the end.
The Interlude
It was upon a night of spring,Even the time when first do singThe new-returnèd nightingales;Whenas all hills and woods and dalesAre resonant with melodyOf songs that die not, but shall beUnto the latest hour of timeBeyond the life of word or rime—Whenas all brooks more softly flowRemembering lovers long agoThat stood upon their banks and vowed, And love was with them like a cloud: There came one out of Athens townIn a spun robe, with sandals brown,Just when the white ship of the moonHad first set sail, and many a runeWas written in the argent stars;His feet were set towards the hillsBecause he knew that there the rillsRan down like jewels, and fairy cars

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