Xvii

I paced entranced the mourne, melodious shore Where Sophocles unwinds with matchless art Life’s tangled error, pondering in my heart The tragic theme that middle diction bore-- The end not hopeless, when, all wanderings o’er, By still Colonus in that place apart The thunder rolled, and while the earth did start, The old man of the sorrows was no more. And I have felt the moving of the strings Beneath the fingers of that troubled soul, Third in the triple dynasty of kings, Whose tenderness, beyond his art’s control, Over life’s mutilated torso wrings Fierce protest, agonizing for the Whole.

HESEPE, 10th June