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THE BURIAL OF SOPHOCLES

Galloped, maybe, among the dells, And airy sprites wove fitful spells Of gossamer and cold moonshine Which do most mistily entwine: And ever the hills called, and a voice Cried: "Soon, maybe, comes thy choice Twixt mortal immortality Such as shall never be again, 'Twixt the most passionate-pleasant pain And all the quiet, barren joys That old men prate about to boys.".....He wandered many nights and days— Whose morns were always crystal clear,As lay the world in still amaze Enchanted of the springing year, And all the nights with wakeful eyes Watched for another dawn to rise— Till at the last the mountain tops Received him, which like giant props Stand, lest the all-encircling skyFall down, and men be crushed and die. And so he reached a curvèd hill Whereon the horned moon did seem Her richest radiance to spill In an inestimable stream, Like jewels rare of countless price, Or wizard magic turned to ice. .....And as he reached the topmost crest of it, Lo! the Olympian majesties did sitIn a most high and passionless conclave:They ate ambrosia with their deathless lips,And ever and anon the golden waveFlowed of the drink divine, which only strips This mortal frame of its mortality. And there, and there was Aphrodite, she

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