O'er The Elysian Field Before

Marcus Aurelius, the Hispano.

Hollow ashes strewn then nigh,

Below the dreary mist sadden'd, 

Across the lorn hummocks high,  

When the ewes were gladden'd.

Before the poplars standing tall,

The waters of the near stream,

Flowing onto runnels that lull,

Beneath the dwindling gleam. 

Bain swards, whett'd wealds,

Swath'd with the listless green,

When worthy men wend'd fields,    

Within such a doughtiness seen.

Striding to Rome with boldness,

Till fields were marr'd in blood,

Within cold nights of madness,

Drenching a once harden'd sod. 

Weary wails of souls forgotten,

Drown in the shades that dere, 

Amidst the striplings begotten,

As the fearless men stood ere.

A yeomanly stride once thither, 

Within brazen hearts that durst,

Along the mist of the erd hither, 

When the long nights were curst.  

A bustling storm begins to wet,

The soughing leaves spread out,

Abreast the leery leas that fret,

Amidst wildflowers that sprout. 

Yare souls of siblings that yield, 

Before the lofty eagle that flew,

Gliding once again above a field,

Where the wuthering winds blew.

Through the clouds a sun shines,

Betwixt a fain welkin that opens,

When the storm willfully dwines,

In the field of wheat that ripens.

Where brethren whilom throve,

Upon the lovesome land of yore,

Where winsome gladiators rove,  

O'er the Elysian Field before.