Xv

Oft have I risen before the night hath flown, To catch the hour of deepest silence sweet, And through that hush to list in my retreat The solemn voice of Æschylus intone, His great Iambic, till the tale hath grown Into a passion over me, where meet Huge forms archaic, and on stately feet Move to swift doom in Æginetan stone. High over all in simple grandeur bold, With crest on crest against the morning skies, Yet in eternal shadow, I behold The massif of the Agamemnon rise, And through its marble caverns shuddering hear The haunting voice of Clytæmnestra’s fear.

HESEPE, 9th June