_A SALUTE by night, than night’s own heart-beat stiller, From the dying to the living. Keats! I lay Here against thy moonlit, storm-unshaken pillar, My garland of a day._ HIGH on the lone and wave-scarred porphyry, The promontoried porch of Attica, Past evenfall, sat he whose reverend hair Down-glittered with the breaker’s volleying foam Visioned before him in the level dark: Ægeus, of wronged Pandion heir, and king. And round about his knees, and at his feet, In saffrons and sad greens alone bedight, Sat, clustered in dim wayward sidelong groups Sheer to the ocean’s edge, those liegemen fond Who with him wished and wept. As thro’ the hours Of ebbing autumn, on a northward hill, Lies summer…
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