Sleep, Sleep, You Great And Dim Trees, Sleeping On The Still Warm, Tender Cheek Of Night, And With Her Cloudy Hair Brushed: Sleep, For The Violent Wind Is Gone; Only Remains Soft Easeful Light, And Shadow Everywhere, And Few Pale Stars. Hardly Has Eve Begun Dreaming Of Day Renewed And Bright With Beams Than Day'S More Fair; Scarce The Full Circle Of The Day Is Run, Nor The Yellow Moon To Her Full Height Risen Through The Misty Air. But From The Increasing Shadowiness Is Spun A Shadowy Shape Growing Clear To Sight, And Fading. Was It Hector There, Great-Helmed, Severe?--And As The Last Sun Shone Seeming In Solemn Splendour Dight Such As Dream Heroes Bear; And Such His Shape As Heroes Stare Upon In Sleep'S Tumultuary Fight When A Cry'S Heard, "Beware!" ... --'Twas Hector, But The Moment-Splendour'S Gone: Shadow Fast Deepens Into Night, Night Spreads--Cold, Wide, Bare.