A Vision

Two crownèd Kings, and One that stood alone
   With no green weight of laurels round his head,
   But with sad eyes as one uncomforted,
And wearied with man’s never-ceasing moan
For sins no bleating victim can atone,
   And sweet long lips with tears and kisses fed.
   Girt was he in a garment black and red,
And at his feet I marked a broken stone
   Which sent up lilies, dove-like, to his knees.
Now at their sight, my heart being lit with flame,
I cried to Beatricé, ‘Who are these?’
And she made answer, knowing well each name,
   ‘Æschylos first, the second Sophokles,
   And last (wide stream of tears!) Euripides.’