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    Eidola
    Eidola
    Eidola
    Ebook102 pages36 minutes

    Eidola

    By Frederic Manning

    ()

    Read preview
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherArchive Classics
    Release dateNov 25, 2013
    Eidola
    Author

    Frederic Manning

    Frederic Manning was born in Sydney, Australia in 1882. He moved to England in 1903 where he pursued a literary career, reviewing and writing poetry. He enlisted in 1915 in the Shropshire Light Infantry and went to France in 1916 as 'Private 19022.' The Shropshires saw heavy fighting on the Somme and Manning's four months there provided the background to Her Privates We. He died in 1935.

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      Book preview

      Eidola - Frederic Manning

      The Project Gutenberg EBook of Eidola, by Frederic Manning

      This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with

      almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or

      re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included

      with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org

      Title: Eidola

      Author: Frederic Manning

      Release Date: January 15, 2011 [EBook #34966]

      Language: English

      *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK EIDOLA ***

      Produced by D Alexander and the Online Distributed

      Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was

      produced from images generously made available by The

      Internet Archive)

      EIDOLA

      BY FREDERIC MANNING

      σκιἁς εἱδωλου

      Aeschylus

      LONDON

      JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE STREET, W.

      1917

      BY FREDERIC MANNING

      LONDON: JOHN MURRAY

      All Rights Reserved

      TO

      THE COUNTESS OF ANCASTER

      CONTENTS

      EIDOLA

      THE CHOOSERS

      O ye! Fragile, tremulous

      Haunters of the deep glades,

      Whose fingers part the leaves

      Of beech and aspen ere ye slip thro’,

      Shall I see ye again?

      Men have said unto me:

      These are but flying lights and shadows,

      Light on the beech-boles, clouds shadowing the corn-fields,

      The wind in the flame of birches in autumn,

      Wind shadowing the clear pools.

      But ye cried, laughing, down the wind:

      Men are but shadows, but a vain breath!

      So here cometh unto me

      That cry from the rejoicing air:

      Men are but shadows! And prone about me

      I see them, hushed and sleeping in the hut,

      Made solemn and holy by the night,

      In the dead light o’ the moon:

      Shadowy, swathed in their blankets,

      As sleep, in hewn sepulchral caves,

      Egypt’s and Asia’s kings.

      While between them are the footsteps

      Of glittering presences, who say: Lo, one

      To be a sword upon my thigh!

      And the sleepers stir restlessly and murmur

      As between them pass

      The bright-mailed choosers of the dead.

      Shall I see ye again, O flying feet

      O’ the forest-haunters, while I couch silent,

      In a wet brake o’ blossom,

      Dark ivy wreathing your whiteness;

      Ere I am torn from the scabbard:

      (Lo, one

      To be a sword upon my thigh!)

      Knowing no longer that earth

      Lieth in the dews, shining and sacred?

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