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.’