Chid with my tongue or cursed at heart for grief,

Knowing how the soul runs reinless on sheer death

Whose grief or joy takes part against the Gods.

And what they will is more than our desire,

And their desire is more than what we will.

For no man's will and no desire of man's

Shall stand as doth a God's will. Yet, O fair

Mother, that seest me how I cast no word

80

Against them, plead no reason, crave no cause,

Boast me not blameless, nor beweep me wronged,

By this fair wreath of towers we have decked thee with,

This chaplet that we give thee woven of walls,

[Pg 5]

This girdle of gate and temple and citadel

Drawn round beneath thy bosom, and fast linked

As to thine heart's root—this dear crown of thine,

This present light, this city—be not thou

Slow to take heed nor slack to strengthen her,

Fare we so short-lived howsoe'er, and pay

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