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.