Two crownèd Kings, and One that stood alone With no green weight of laurels round his head, But with sad eyes as one uncomforted, And wearied with man’s never-ceasing moan For sins no bleating victim can atone, And sweet long lips with tears and kisses fed. Girt was he in a garment black and red, And at his feet I marked a broken stone Which sent up lilies, dove-like, to his knees. Now at their sight, my heart being lit with flame I cried to Beatricé, “Who are these?” And she made answer, knowing well each name, “Æschylos first, the second Sophokles, And last (wide stream of tears!) Euripides.”