Jessie B. Rittenhouse, ed. (1869–1948). The Little Book of Modern Verse. 1917.
Florence Wilkinson
A Memorial Tablet
N
Without one glance behind!
Hast thou no fear, Agathocles,
Or backward grief of mind?
Presses against thy knee;
He, too, oh, sweet Agathocles,
Is deaf and visioned like thee.
And yet thou art not ours.
What Delphic saying compels thee
Of kings or topless towers?
Thou losest from thine arm—
No shoon nor staff, Agathocles,
Nor sword, to fend from harm!
Awed brow of mystery—
Yesterday thou wast burning,
Mad boy, for Glaucöe.
Mine eyes with tears are dim,
Turn once, look once, Agathocles—
(The gods have blinded him.)
Brings thee what place of rest?
Wine-sweet are Glaucöe’s kisses,
Flower-soft her budding breast.
He seems to listen and smile;
(Nay, Philis, but a god-song
He follows this many a mile.)
(He scents the, asphodel;
Unearthly swift he runneth.)
Agathocles, farewell!