康科德的一位老人忘记去做早祷。他在读维吉尔的书时睡着了，梦见自己是参加意大利王子帕拉斯葬礼的埃涅阿斯。太阳在我的页面上是蓝色和猩红色的，还有呜，呜，呜，呜，呜，呜，呜，呜，呜，呜，呜，呜，呜，呜，呜，呜，呜。黄火笼罩着俘虏在火堆上跳舞;被烤焦的祭司尖叫，丢掉他的杖。特洛伊人正在向他们醉酒的神阿瑞斯唱歌。他们的头盔着火了。他们的档案在我战友的尸体旁叮当作响?数英里的文件!现在，镰刀轮的战车在他们的长矛前滚动，长得像拱形的柱子，我站起来，向成千上万的人致敬，他们把雅典娜斯带到鸟祭司那里。然后，鸟牧师呻吟着，正如他的鸟所预言的那样，我嘴唇对嘴唇地问候尸体。我拿着蒂朵用过的剑。 It tries to speak, A bird with Dido?s sworded breast. Its beak Clangs and ejaculates the Punic word I hear the bird-priest chirping like a bird. I groan a little. ?Who am I, and why?? It asks, a boy?s face, though its arrow-eye Is working from its socket. ?Brother, try, O Child of Aphrodite, try to die: To die is life.? His harlots hang his bed With feathers of his long-tailed birds. His head Is yawning like a person. The plumes blow; The beard and eyebrows ruffle. Face of snow, You are the flower that country girls have caught, A wild bee-pillaged honey-suckle brought To the returning bridegroom?the design Has not yet left it, and the petals shine; The earth, its mother, has, at last, no help: It is itself. The broken-winded yelp Of my Phoenician hounds, that fills the brush With snapping twigs and flying, cannot flush The ghost of Pallas. But I take his pall, Stiff with its gold and purple, and recall How Dido hugged it to her, while she toiled, Laughing?her golden threads, a serpent coiled In cypress. Now I lay it like a sheet; It clinks and settles down upon his feet, The careless yellow hair that seemed to burn Beforehand. Left foot, right foot?as they turn, More pyres are rising: armored horses, bronze, And gagged Italians, who must file by ones Across the bitter river, when my thumb Tightens into their wind-pipes. The beaks drum; Their headman?s cow-horned death?s-head bites its tongue, And stiffens, as it eyes the hero slung Inside his feathered hammock on the crossed Staves of the eagles that we winged. Our cost Is nothing to the lovers, whoring Mars And Venus, father?s lover. Now his car?s Plumage is ready, and my marshals fetch His squire, Acoctes, white with age, to hitch Aethon, the hero?s charger, and its ears Prick, and it steps and steps, and stately tears Lather its teeth; and then the harlots bring The hero?s charms and baton?but the King, Vain-glorious Turnus, carried off the rest. ?I was myself, but Ares thought it best The way it happened.? At the end of time, He sets his spear, as my descendants climb The knees of Father Time, his beard of scalps, His scythe, the arc of steel that crowns the Alps. The elephants of Carthage hold those snows, Turms of Numidian horse unsling their bows, The flaming turkey-feathered arrows swarm Beyond the Alps. ?Pallas,? I raise my arm And shout, ?Brother, eternal health. Farewell Forever.? Church is over, and its bell Frightens the yellowhammers, as I wake And watch the whitecaps wrinkle up the lake. Mother?s great-aunt, who died when I was eight, Stands by our parlor sabre. ?Boy, it?s late. Vergil must keep the Sabbath.? Eighty years! It all comes back. My Uncle Charles appears. Blue-capped and bird-like. Phillips Brooks and Grant Are frowning at his coffin, and my aunt, Hearing his colored volunteers parade Through Concord, laughs, and tells her English maid To clip his yellow nostril hairs, and fold His colors on him. . . . It is I. I hold His sword to keep from falling, for the dust On the stuffed birds is breathless, for the bust Of young Augustus weighs on Vergil?s shelf: It scowls into my glasses at itself.