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
“Æschylos first, the second sophokles
And last (wide stream of tears!) euripides”