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There, in that sun-ark, lo, Waiteth he wistful; Summer comes smiling, lo, Rays smite the pile! Burden'd with eld-years, and Weary with slow time, Slow in his odour-nest Burneth the bird. Up from those ashes, then, Springeth a rare fruit; Deep in the rare fruit There coileth a worm. Weaving bliss-meshes Around and around it, Silent and blissful, the Worm worketh on.
There, in that sun-ark, lo, Waiteth he wistful; Summer comes smiling, lo, Rays smite the pile! Burden'd with eld-years, and Weary with slow time, Slow in his odour-nest Burneth the bird. Up from those ashes, then, Springeth a rare fruit; Deep in the rare fruit There coileth a worm. Weaving bliss-meshes Around and around it, Silent and blissful, the Worm worketh on.
As a serpent of the mountains upon his den awaiteth a man, having fed on evil poisons, and fell wrath hath entered into him, and terribly he glared as he coileth himself about his den, so Hector with courage unquenchable gave not back, leaning his shining shield against a jutting tower.
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