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Ah, not Cassandra! Wake not her

Whom God hath maddened, lest the foe

Mock at her dreaming. Leave me clear

From that one edge of woe.

O Troy, my Troy, thou diest here

Most lonely; and most lonely we

The living wander forth from thee,

And the dead leave thee wailing!

Out of the tent of the Greek king

I steal, my Queen, with trembling breath:

What means thy call? Not death; not death!

They would not slay so low a thing!

.

O, 'tis the ship-folk crying

To deck the galleys: and we part, we part!

.

Nay, daughter: take the morning to thine heart.

.

My heart with dread is dying!

.

An herald from the Greek hath come!

.

How have they cast me, and to whom

A bondmaid?

. Peace, child: wait thy doom.

Our lots are near the trying.