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From him is the ache of the flesh

For blood born and increased;

Ere the old sore hath ceased

It oozeth afresh.

—Indeed He is very great,

And heavy his anger, He,

The Daemon who guides the fate

Of the old Tantalidae:

Alas, alas, an evil tale ye tell

Of desolate angers and insatiable!

—Ah me,

And yet 'tis all as Zeus hath willed,

Doer of all and Cause of all;

By His Word every chance doth fall,

No end without Him is fulfilled;

What of these things

But Cometh by high Heaven's counsellings?

Ah, sorrow, sorrow! My King, my King!

How shall I weep, what word shall I say?

Caught in the web of this spider thing,

In foul death graspinggasping [sic] thy life away!

Woe's me, woe's me, for this slavish lying,

The doom of craft and the lonely dying,

The iron two-edged and the hands that slay!