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Argos, belike, or Phthia shall it be,

Or some lone island of the tossing sea,

Far, far from Troy?

And I the aged, where go I,

A winter-frozen bee, a slave

Death-shapen, as the stones that lie

Hewn on a dead man's grave:

The children of mine enemy

To foster, or keep watch before

The threshold of a master's door,

I that was Queen in Troy!

And thou, what tears can tell thy doom?

.

The shuttle still shall flit and change

Beneath my fingers, but the loom,

Sister, be strange.

(wildly).

Look, my dead child! My child, my love,

The last look

. Oh, there cometh worse.

A Greek's bed in the dark

. God curse

That night and all the powers thereof!