his armour on the forest-moss,

and took, unmatched in an uneven contest,

Hippolyta who relented not,

returned and sought no kiss.

Then did she pray: Artemis,

grant that no flower

be grafted alien on a broken stalk,

no dark flame-laurel on the stricken crest

of a wild mountain-poplar;

grant in my thought,

I never yield but wait,

entreating cold white river,

mountain-pool and salt:

let all my veins be ice,

until they break

(strength of white beach,

rock of mountain land,

forever to you, Artemis, dedicate)

from out my reins,

those small, cold hands.

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