  The sounding battles leave him nodding still: The din of javelins at the distant wall Is far too faint to wake that weary will That all but sleeps for cities where they fall. He cares not if this Helen's face were fair, Nor if the thousand ships shall go or stay; In vain the rumbling chariots throng the air With sounds the centuries shall not hush away. Beyond the window where the Spring is new, Are marbles in a square, and tops again, And floating voices tell him what they do, Luring his thought from these long-warring men,—— And though the camp be visited with gods, He dreams of marbles and of tops, and nods. |
|
