Awake, awake, O sleeping men of Troy,
That sleep and know not in the grasp of Hell

I perish in the treacherous lonely night
To foes betrayed, environed and undone.

O Trojans, will ye sleep until the doom

Have slipped its leash and bark upon your doors?

Not long will ye, unless in Pluto’s realm,
Have slumber, since forsaken among foes
I drink the bitter cup of lonely death
Unheeded and from helping faces far.

O Trojans, Trojans, yet again I call!

Swift help we need, or Ilion’s days are done.

Epitaph

Moulded of twilight and the vesper star
Midnight in her with noon made quiet war;—

Moulded twixt life and death, Love came between;

Then the night fell; twilight faded, the star had been.

A Doubt

Many boons the new years make us

But the old world's gifts were three,
Dove of Cypris, wine of Bacchus,
Pan’s sweet pipe in Sicily.

Love, wine, song, the core of living

Sweetest, oldest, musicalest.
If at end of forward striving

These, Life’s first, proved also best?

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