Page:Poems and ballads (IA poemsballads00swinrich).pdf/51

 For the bright writing of my name is black, And I am sick with hating the sweet sun.

Let not this woman wail and cleave to me, That am no part of the gods' wrath with her; Loose ye her hands from me lest she take hurt.

Lady, this speech and majesty are twain; Pure shame is of one counsel with the gods.

Man is as beast when shame stands off from him.

Man, what have I to do with shame or thee? I am not of one counsel with the gods. I am their kin, I have strange blood in me, I am not of their likeness nor of thine: My veins are mixed, and therefore am I mad, Yea therefore chafe and turn on mine own flesh, Half of a woman made with half a god. But thou wast hewn out of an iron womb And fed with molten mother-snow for milk. A sword was nurse of thine; Hippolyta, That had the spear to father, and the axe To bridesman, and wet blood of sword-slain men