XII.
And who knows, (I sometimes wondered,)
If the disembodied soul
Of old Hector, once of Troy,
Might not take a dreary joy
Here to enter—if it thundered,
Rolling up the thunder-roll?
XIII.
Rolling this way, from Troy-ruin,
In this body rude and rife,
He might enter, and take rest
'Neath the daisies of the breast—
They, with tender roots, renewing
His heroic heart to life.
XIV.
Who could know? I sometimes started
At a motion or a sound!
Did his mouth speak—naming Troy,
With an ο·το·το·το·τοι?
Did the pulse of the Strong-hearted
Make the daisies tremble round?
XV.
It was hard to answer, often:
But the birds sang in the tree—
But the little birds sang bold,
In the pear-tree green and old;
And my terror seemed to soften,
Through the courage of their glee.
