The Burial of Sophocles

Gather great store of roses, crimson-redFrom ancient gardens under summer skies:New opened buds, and some that soon must shedTheir leaves to earth, that all expectant lies;Some from the paths of poets' wandering,Some from the places where young lovers meet,Some from the seats of dreamers pondering,And all most richly red, and honey-sweet.

For in the splendour of the afternoon,When sunshine lingers on the glittering townAnd glorifies the temples wondrous-hewnAll set about it like a deathless crown,We will go mingle with the solemn throng,With neither eyes that weep, nor hearts that bleed,That to his grave with slow, majestic songBears down the latest of the godlike seed.

Many a singer lies on distant isleBeneath the canopy of changing sky:Around them waves innumerable smile,And o'er their head the restless seabirds cry:But we will lay him far from sound of seas,Far from the jutting crags' unhopeful gloom,Where there blows never wind save summer breeze,And where the growing rose may clasp his tomb.

And thither in the splendid nights of spring,When stars in legions over heaven are flung,Shall come the ancient gods, all wonderingWhy he sings not that had so richly sung:There Heracles with peaceful foot shall pressThe 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 ageApproach 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 carsGalloped, maybe, among the dells,And airy sprites wove fitful spellsOf gossamer and cold moonshineWhich do most mistily entwine:And ever the hills called, and a voiceCried: "Soon, maybe, comes thy choiceTwixt mortal immortalitySuch as shall never be again,'Twixt the most passionate-pleasant painAnd all the quiet, barren joysThat old men prate about to boys.".....He wandered many nights and days—Whose morns were always crystal clear,As lay the world in still amazeEnchanted of the springing year,And all the nights with wakeful eyesWatched for another dawn to rise—Till at the last the mountain topsReceived him, which like giant propsStand, lest the all-encircling skyFall down, and men be crushed and die.And so he reached a curvèd hillWhereon the horned moon did seemHer richest radiance to spillIn 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 stripsThis mortal frame of its mortality.And there, and there was Aphrodite, sheThat is more lovely than the golden dawnAnd from a ripple of the sea was born:And there was Hera, the imperious queen,And Dian’s chastity, that hunts unseenWhat time with spring the woodland boughs are green:And there was Pan with mirth and pleasantness,And Eros' self that never knew distressSave for the love of the fair Cretan maid;There Hermes with the wings of speed arrayed,And awful Zeus, the king of gods and men,And ever at his feet Apollo sangA measure of changing harmonies that rangFrom that high mountain over all the world,And all the sails of fighting ships were furled,And men drew breath, and there was peace again.But him that saw, the sight like flameOr depths of waters overcame:He swooned, nor heard how ceased the choirOf strings upon Apollo's lyre,Nor saw he how the sweet god stoodAnd smiled on him in kindly mood,And stooped, and kissed him as he lay;Then lightly rose and turned awayTo join the bright immortal throngAnd make for them another song.

The Last Verses

O ageless nonpareil of starsThat shinest through a mist of cloud,O light beyond the prison barsRemote, unwavering, and proud;Fortunate star and happy light,Ye benison the gloom of night.

All hail, unfailing eye and hand,All hail, all hail, unsilenced voice,That makest dead men understand,The very dead in graves rejoice:Whose utterance, writ in ancient books,Shall always live, for him that looks.

Many as leaves from autumn treesThe years shall flutter from on high,And with their multiple deceaseThe souls of men shall fall and die,Yet, while the empires turn to dust,You shall live on, because you must.

O seven times happy he that diesAfter the splendid harvest-tide,When strong barns shield from winter skiesThe grain that's rightly stored inside:There death shall scatter no more tearsThan o'er the falling of the years:

Aye, happy seven times is heWho enters not the silent doorsBefore his time, but tenderlyDeath beckons unto him, becauseThere's rest within for weary feetNow all the journey is complete.