Of old it went forth to Euchenor, pronounced of his sire -- Reluctant, impelled by the god's unescapable fire -- To choose for his doom or to perish at home of disease Or be slain of his foes, among men, where Troy surges down to the seas. Polyides, the soothsayer, spake it, inflamed by the god. Of his son whom the fates singled out did he bruit it abroad; And Euchenor went down to the ships with his armor and men And straightway, grown dim on the gulf, passed the isles he passed never again. Why weep ye, O women of Corinth? The doom ye have heard Is it strange to your ears that ye make it so mournful a word? Is he who so fair in your eyes to his manhood upgrew, Alone in his doom of pale death -- are of mortals the beaten so few? O weep not, companions and lovers! Turn back to your joys: The defeat was not his which he chose, nor the victory Troy's. Him a conqueror, beauteous in youth, o'er the flood his fleet brought, And the swift spear of Paris that slew completed the conquest he sought. Not the falling proclaims the defeat, but the place of the fall; And the fate that decrees and the god that impels through it all Regard not blind mortals' divisions of slayer and slain, But invisible glories dispense wide over the war-gleaming plain. He whom a Dream hath possessed. [Shaemas O Sheel] He whom a dream hath possessed knoweth no more of doubting, For mist and the blowing of winds and the mouthing of words he scorns; Not the sinuous speech of schools he hears, but a knightly shouting, And never comes darkness down, yet he greeteth a million morns. He whom a dream hath possessed knoweth no more of roaming; All roads and the flowing of waves and the speediest flight he knows, But wherever his feet are set, his soul is forever homing, And going, he comes, and coming he heareth a call and goes. He whom a dream hath possessed knoweth no more of sorrow, At death and the dropping of leaves and the fading of suns he smiles, For a dream remembers no past and scorns the desire of a morrow, And a dream in a sea of doom sets surely the ultimate isles. He whom a dream hath possessed treads the impalpable marches, From the dust of the day's long road he leaps to a laughing star, And the ruin of worlds that fall he views from eternal arches, And rides God's battlefield in a flashing and golden car. The Kings. [Louise Imogen Guiney] A man said unto his Angel: "My spirits are fallen low, And I cannot carry this battle: O brother! where might I go? "The terrible Kings are on me With spears that are deadly bright; Against me so from the cradle Do fate and my fathers fight." Then said to the man his Angel: "Thou wavering, witless soul, Back to the ranks! What matter To win or to lose the whole, "As judged by the little judges Who hearken not well, nor see? Not thus, by the outer issue, The Wise shall interpret thee.