But dream-appearing mournful fantasies —There they stand, bringing grace that’s vain.For vain ’t is, when brave things one seems to view;The fantasy has floated off, hands through;Gone, that appearance, — nowise left to creep, —On wings, the servants in the paths of sleep!Woes, then, in household and on hearth, are suchAs these—and woes surpassing these by much.But not these only: everywhere —For those who from the landOf Hellas issued in a band,Sorrow, the heart must bear,Sits in the home of each, conspicuous there.Many a circumstance, at least,Touches the very breast.For thoseWhom any sent away, — he knows:And in the live man’s stead,Armour and ashes reachThe house of each.