Page:Atalanta in Calydon - a tragedy (IA atalantaincalydo00swinrich).pdf/94

 O queen, for queenlike hast thou borne thyself, A little word may hold so great mischance. For in division of the sanguine spoil These men thy brethren wrangling bade yield up The boar’s head and the horror of the hide That this might stand a wonder in Calydon, Hallowed; and some drew toward them; but thy son With great hands grasping all that weight of hair Cast down the dead heap clanging and collapsed At female feet, saying This thy spoil not mine, Maiden, thine own hand for thyself hath reaped, And all this praise God gives thee: she thereat Laughed, as when dawn touches the sacred night The sky sees laugh and redden and divide Dim lips and eyelids virgin of the sun, Hers, and the warm slow breasts of morning heave, Fruitful, and flushed with flame from lamp-lit hours, And maiden undulation of clear hair Colour the clouds; so laughed she from pure heart, Lit with a low blush to the braided hair, And rose-coloured and cold like very dawn, Golden and godlike, chastely with chaste lips, A faint grave laugh; and all they held their peace, And she passed by them. Then one cried Lo now, Shall not the Arcadian shoot out lips at us,