Colonos, can it be that thou hast still
Thy laurel and thine olive and thy vine?
Do thy close--feathered nightingales yet trill
Their warbles of thick--sobbing song divine?
Does the gold sheen of the crocus o'er thee shine
And dew--fed clusters of the daffodil,
And round thy flowery knots, Cephisus twine,
Aye oozing up with many a bubbling rill?
Oh, might I stand beside thy leafy knoll,
In sight of the far--off city towers, and see
The faithful--hearted pure Antigone
Toward the dread precinct leading sad and slow
That awful temple of a kingly soul,
Lifted to heaven by unexampled woe.