The Coming of War: Actaeon

by Ezra Pound

　　     and the fields

　　Full of faint light

　　     but golden,

　　Gray cliffs,

　　     and beneath them

　　A sea

　　Harsher than granite,

　　     unstill, never ceasing;

　　High forms

　　     with the movement of gods,

　　Perilous aspect;

　　     And one said:

　　"This is Actaeon."

　　     Actaeon of golden greaves!

　　Over fair meadows,

　　Over the cool face of that field,

　　Unstill, even moving,

　　Hosts of an ancient people,

　　The silent cortège.