DID you feel Time turn his hand within
Your grave and stir you, Aeschylus, thin
Bone-dust sifting through the warm wheat-land
Of Gela? Did your lost flesh move, your hand
Flex suddenly to god-loud battle burning
Over Sicily, the old years turning
Back, as if you had remembered Now?
There it was: hard thunder over brow
Of beach and fury-cry of gods to beat
New war from riven sky and plain. The feet
Of strong men passed you then, old poet, stuff
Of plays, dark fate and treble-fear enough
For your unquiet dust to speak. Your theme
Is as it was — the torn will, the dream
Sent reeling back through night, the cord
Of gods drawn long through men, the awful word
Of right. Now let your mouth move music in
The wastes of earth. Lament what we have been,
And rake once more the Furies out of hell.
Flesh silting down to you will listen well.