(From whose wild lips, thou knowest, that wail was thrown)

For round about her have the great gods cast

A wing-borne body, and clothed her close and fast

With a sweet life that hath no part in moan.

But me, for me (how hadst thou heart to hear?)

Remains a sundering with the two-edged spear.

Ah, for her doom! so cried in presage then

The bodeful bondslave of the king of men,

And might not win her will.

Too close the entangling dragnet woven of crime,

The snare of ill new-born of elder ill,

The curse of new time for an elder time,

Had caught, and held her yet,

Enmeshed intolerably in the intolerant net,

Who thought with craft to mock the God most high,

And win by wiles his crown of prophecy

From the Sun's hand sublime,

As God were man, to spare or to forget.

But thou,—the gods have given thee and forgiven thee

More than our master gave

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