Cold song

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”