Page:Poems and ballads (IA poemsballads00swinrich).pdf/53

 The most dispiteous out of all the gods, I am well pleased. Lo, do I crave so much? I do but bid thee be unmerciful, Even the one thing thou art. Pity me not: Thou wert not quick to pity. Think of me As of a thing thy hounds are keen upon In the wet woods between the windy ways, And slay me for a spoil. This body of mine Is worth a wild beast's fell or hide of hair, And spotted deeper than a panther's grain. I were but dead if thou wert pure indeed; I pray thee by thy cold green holy crown And by the fillet-leaves of Artemis. Nay, but thou wilt not. Death is not like thee, Albeit men hold him worst of all the gods. For of all gods Death only loves not gifts, Nor with burnt-offering nor blood-sacrifice Shalt thou do aught to get thee grace of him; He will have naught of altar and altar-song, And from him only of all the lords in heaven Persuasion turns a sweet averted mouth. But thou art worse: from thee with baffled breath Back on my lips my prayer falls like a blow, And beats upon them, dumb. What shall I say? There is no word I can compel thee with