PHOCAS
“ . . . Here, since the needs of life for me
Are over, o’er my feet
Resting (and yet not tired), below,
Ye dwarfish pair of pot-herbs, grow—
Fail not! I might not lustier take,
To rob my poor of meat.”
Then with sharp Briars he lined the pit:
“Who wore you for a Crown
A King He was—a craven, I !
How oft, all lush with victory,
Cares of this world, ye choked my life—
Dead, I shall keep you down.”
He stood: and in his gentle mind
Seem’d all the plants to tell.
“The Vine is full of mysteries.
The Gourd, the Passion-flower—but these
Let me not have,” he said, “for when
Was all indulgence well?”
When, next he lift his eyes, behold
The night was pass’d away,
And pass’d the pearly, glimmering hours;
Bright dew-drops quiver’d in the flowers,
And the first sunbeam of the morn
Upon his last work lay.
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