Hector

Sleep, sleep, you great and dim trees, sleeping on     The still warm, tender cheek of night,     And with her cloudy hair     Brushed: sleep, for the violent wind is gone;     Only remains soft easeful light,     And shadow everywhere,     And few pale stars. Hardly has eve begun     Dreaming of day renewed and bright     With beams than day's more fair;     Scarce the full circle of the day is run,     Nor the yellow moon to her full height     Risen through the misty air.     But from the increasing shadowiness is spun     A shadowy shape growing clear to sight,     And fading. Was it Hector there,     Great-helmed, severe?--and as the last sun shone     Seeming in solemn splendour dight     Such as dream heroes bear;     And such his shape as heroes stare upon     In sleep's tumultuary fight     When a cry's heard, "Beware!" ...     --'Twas Hector, but the moment-splendour's gone:     Shadow fast deepens into night,     Night spreads--cold, wide, bare.