Beneath the branches of the olive yard
Are roots where cyclamen and violet grow
Beneath the roots the earth is deep and hard
And there a king was buried long ago.
The peasants digging deeply in the mould
Cast up the autumn soil about the place,
And saw a gleam of unexpected gold,
And underneath the earth a living face.
With sleeping lids and rosy lips he lay
Among the wreaths and gems that mark the king
One moment; then a little dust and clay
Fell shrivelled over wreath and urn and ring.
A carven slab recalls his name and deeds,
Writ in a language no man living reads.