Hector

Sleep, sleep, you great and dim trees, sleeping on The still warm, tender cheek of night, And with her cloudy hair Brushed: sleep, for the violent wind is gone; Only remains soft easeful light, And shadow everywhere, And few pale stars. Hardly has eve begun Dreaming of day renewed and bright With beams than day's more fair; Scarce the full circle of the day is run, Nor the yellow moon to her full height Risen through the misty air. But from the increasing shadowiness is spun A shadowy shape growing clear to sight, And fading. Was it Hector there, Great-helmed, severe?—and as the last sun shone Seeming in solemn splendour dight Such as dream heroes bear; And such his shape as heroes stare upon In sleep's tumultuary fight When a cry's heard, "Beware!" ... —'Twas Hector, but the moment-splendour's gone: Shadow fast deepens into night, Night spreads—cold, wide, bare.