Page:Agamemnon (Murray 1920).djvu/88

70

And what of the doom of craft that first

He planted, making the House accurst?

What of the blossom from this root riven,

Iphigenîa, the unforgiven?

Even as the wrong was, so is the pain:

He shall not laugh in the House of the slain,

When the count is scored;

He hath but spoilèd and paid again

The due of the sword.

I am lost; my mind dull-eyed

Knows not nor feels

Whither to fly nor hide

While the House reels.

The noise of rain that falls

On the roof affrighteth me,

Washing away the walls;

Rain that falls bloodily.

Doth ever the sound abate?

Lo, the next Hour of Fate

Whetting her vengeance due

On new whet-stones, for new

Workings of hate.

Would thou hadst covered me, Earth, O Earth,

Or e'er I had looked on my lord thus low,

In the pallèd marble of silvern girth!

What hands may shroud him, what tears may flow?