Why from the quiet hollows of the hills, And extreme meeting place of light and shade, Wherein soft rains fell slowly, and became Clouds among sister clouds, where fair spent beams
And dying glories of the sun would dwell, Why have they whom I know not, nor may know, Strange hands, unseen and ruthless, fashioned me, And borne me from the silent shadowy hills,
Hither, to noise and glow of alien life, To harsh and clamorous swords, and sound of war? One speaks unto me words that would be sweet, Made harsh, made keen with love that knows me not,
And some strange force, within me or around, Makes answer, kiss for kiss, and sigh for sigh, And somewhere there is fever in the halls That troubles me, for no such trouble came
To vex the cool far hollows of the hills. The foolish folk crowd round me, and they cry, That house, and wife, and lands, and all Troy town, Are little to lose, if they may keep me here,
And see me flit, a pale and silent shade, Among the streets bereft, and helpless shrines. At other hours another life seems mine, Where one great river runs unswollen of rain,
By pyramids of unremembered kings, And homes of men obedient to the Dead. There dark and quiet faces come and go Around me, then again the shriek of arms,
And all the turmoil of the Ilian men. What are they? even shadows such as I. What make they? Even this — the sport of gods — The sport of gods, however free they seem.
Ah, would the game were ended, and the light, The blinding light, and all too mighty suns, Withdrawn, and I once more with sister shades, Unloved, forgotten, mingled with the mist,
Dwelt in the hollows of the shadowy hills.
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