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Rh Whom Lord Apollo spared to walk her way

A swift and virgin spirit, on this day

Lust hath her, and she goeth garlanded

A bride of wrath to Agamemnon's bed.

O happy long ago, farewell, farewell,

Ye shining towers and mine own citadel;

Broken by Pallas, Child of God, or still

Thy roots had held thee true.

Is it the will

Of God's high Brother, to whose hand is given

Great power of old, and worship of all Heaven,

To suffer speech from one whose enmities

This day are cast aside?

His will it is:

Kindred and long companionship withal,

Most high Athena, are things magical.

Blest be thy gentle mood!—Methinks I see

A road of comfort here, for thee and me.

Thou hast some counsel of the Gods, or word

Spoken of Zeus? Or is it tidings heard

From some far Spirit?