Page:Agamemnon (Murray 1920).djvu/68

50

No great interpreter of oracles

Am I; but this, I think, some mischief spells.

What spring of good hath seercraft ever made

Up from the dark to flow?

'Tis but a weaving of words, a craft of woe,

To make mankind afraid.

Poor woman! Poor dead woman! Yea, it is I,

Poured out like water among them. Weep for me.

Ah! What is this place? Why must I come with thee

To die, only to die?

Thou art borne on the breath of God, thou spirit wild,

For thine own weird to wail,

Like to that wingèd voice, that heart so sore

Which, crying alway, hungereth to cry more,

"Itylus, Itylus," till it sing her child

Back to the nightingale.

Oh, happy Singing Bird, so sweet, so clear!

Soft wings for her God made,

And an easy passing, without pain or tear

For me 'twill be torn flesh and rending blade.