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It hideth in my bosom's core,

It beats its wings for death, for death,

A bitter wind that blows before

The prow, a hate that festereth,

A thing of horror, yet divine!

Zeus of the orphan, when

Wilt lift thy hand among men?

Let the land have a sign. Be strong,

And smite the neck from the head.

I ask for right after much wrong.

Hear me, O God! Hark to my song,

Ye Princedoms of the Dead!

'Tis written: the shed drop doth crave

For new blood. Yea, the murdered cry

Of dead men shrieketh from the grave

To Her who out of sins gone by

Makes new sin, that the old may die.

How? Are ye dumb, Ye Princedoms of the Dead?

O Curses of Them that perish, come hither, hither!

Look on this wreck of kings, the beaten head,

Bowed in despair, roofless, disherited!

Whither to turn, O Lord Zeus? Whither, whither?

My heart, my heart is tossed again

To see thee yielded up to pain,