Written At Mycenae
I saw a weird procession glide along
The vestibule before the
A Man of godlike limb and warrior state,
Who never looked behind him, led the throng;
Next a pale Girl, singing sweet sorrow, met
My eyes, who ever pointed to a fleck
Of ingrained crimson on her marble neck;
Her a fierce Woman, armed with knife and net,
Close followed, whom a Youth pursued with smile,
Once mild, now bitter--mad, himself the while
Pursued by three foul Shapes, gory and grey:
Dread family! . . . I saw another day
The phantom of that Youth, sitting alone,
Quiet, thought--bound, a stone upon a stone.
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