Edith Wharton (1862–1937)

UPWARD we went by fields of asphodel,

Leaving Ortygia’s moat-bound walls below,

By orchards where the wind-flowers’ drifted snow

Lay softly heaped upon the turf’s light swell,

By gardens whence upon the wayside fell

Jasmine and rose in April’s overflow,

Till, winding up Epipolæ’s wide brow,

We reached at last the lonely citadel.

There, on the ruined rampart climbing high,

We sat and dreamed among the browsing sheep,

Until we heard the trumpet’s startled cry

Waking a clang of arms about the keep,

And seaward saw, with rapt, foreboding eye,

The sails of Athens whiten on the deep.