Higginson and Bigelow, comps. American Sonnets. 1891.
On an Etruscan TombWilliam Gibson (1826–1887)
O
Two thousand years and more these warriors fight;
One lifts the shield and one the sword to smite;
The end it is not given us to discern,
Nor yet the purport of that strife to learn.
Scorn not my reading, terrible if trite.
All life is such a battle, until the night
Falls, and ephemeral heats to ashes burn.
In the long sheet, arms limp upon the breast,
Head drooped and turned, a form of perfect rest;
Strewn to the wind the dust that lay herein;
Yet on this sepulchre the Etruscan faith
Carved unmistakably a Sleep—not Death.