Gleams the narrow hidden space Forward, where her fiery race Falters on its ashen goal:

Black in Hades sits the hour. X Still upon her sunless soul

Ilion's fierce prophetic flower Cried the coming of the Greek!

Through her shines the Ten-Years' Tale. IX

Once to many a pealing shriek, Lo, from Ilion's topmost tower,

Like a torch-flame that by day Up the daylight twists, and, pale,

Catches air in leaps that fail, Crushed by the inveterate ray,

Gods!--they glimmer ocean-washed. VII Alien voices round the ships,

Thick as water, shouting Home. Argives, pale as midnight foam,

Wax before her awful lips: White as stars that front the gloom. VIII

O the bliss upon the plains, Where the joining heroes clashed

Chieftains, brethren of her joy, Shades, the white light in their eyes Slanting to her lips, arise,

Shield and spear, and, unabashed, Challenged with hot chariot-reins

Crowding quick the plains of Troy: Now they tell her not she lies. VI

Here she sees the anchor cast: Backward moves her sunless soul. V

Silent lie her slaughter'd kin. III Once to many a pealing shriek,

Folded like a prophet's scroll, In the deep's long shoreward roll

While her little sullen chin Fills the hollows of her throat:

Black in Hades sits the hour. IV Eyeing phantoms of the Past,

Lo, from Ilion's topmost tower, Ilion's fierce prophetic flower Cried the coming of the Greek!