MATTHEW ARNOLD
They see Tiresias
Sitting, staff in hand,
On the warm, grassy
Asopus* bank*
His robe drawn over
His old, sightless head:
Revolving inly
The doom of Thebes.
They see the Centaurs In the upper glens Of Pelion, in the streams, Where red-berried ashes fringe The clear-brown shallow pooh, With streaming flanks, and heads Rear'd proudly, snuffing The mountain wind.
They see the Indian
Drifting, knife in hand,
His frail boat moor'd to
A floating isle thick matted
With large-leav'd, low-creeping melon-plants,
And the daik cucumber.
He reaps, and stows them,
Drifting drifting lound him,
Round his green harvest-plot,
Flow the cool lake-waves.
The mountains ring them.
They see the Scythian On the wide Stepp, unharnessing Hib wheel'd house at noon. He tethers his beast down, and makes his meal,
�� �
