The Dead Kings

All the dead kings came to meAt Rosnaree, where I was dreaming.A few stars glimmered through the morn,And down the thorn the dews were streaming.

And every dead king had a storyOf ancient glory, sweetly told.It was too early for the lark,But the starry dark had tints of gold.

I listened to the sorrows threeOf that Eirë passed into song.A cock crowed near a hazel croft,And up aloft dim larks winged strong.

And I, too, told the kings a storyOf later glory, her fourth sorrow:There was a sound like moving shieldsIn high green fields and the lowland furrow.

And one said: "We who yet are kingsHave heard these things lamenting inly."Sweet music flowed from many a billAnd on the hill the morn stood queenly.

And one said: "Over is the singing,And bell bough ringing, whence we come;With heavy hearts we'll tread the shadows,In honey meadows birds are dumb."

And one said: "Since the poets perishedAnd all they cherished in the way,Their thoughts unsung, like petal showersInflame the hours of blue and gray."

And one said: "A loud tramp of menWe'll hear again at Rosnaree."A bomb burst near me where I lay.I woke, 'twas day in Picardy.

France,January 7th, 1917.