I

All day the droning of the aeroplanes,
Above the hot brick buildings in the blaze,
That in their skyey gliding seem to graze
The air to fiercer fire above gilt vanes,
Sleek purple roofs, sharp-pricking spires and towers
Of glowing mottled brick; and through my head
That droning hums and purrs as, aching red
And staring blue, trail by the unending hours.

But under silvery olive-trees he sleeps,
Tombed in a hill of marble on the Isle
Of Skyros that once, veiled in shimmering rain,
I saw in passing. On the rosy steeps
And silvery trees he looked a little while,
Then turned to slumber, never to wake again.

II

He slumbers, but his living words sing on,
Lighting for ever the dark hearts of men,
The hearts of men on whom his presence shone
Living, who'll never see his like again
In this world, and strange hearts that caught no gleam
Of the golden spirit until his radiant death
Blazoned it over all the earth, a breath
Of singing fire from sunset shores of dream.

O singing fire, O starry words that sang
A moment through his lighted blood, and live
When he who gave you loving life is dead,
For ever to that fallen golden head
And the laughing golden heart from which you sprang
Starry and singing and deathless life you give.