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O Hymen, Hymen fleet:

Quick torch that makest one!

How? Am I still alone?

Laugh as I laugh, and twine

In the dance, O Mother mine:

Dear feet, be near my feet!

Come, greet ye Hymen, greet

Hymen with songs of pride:

Sing to him loud and long,

Cry, cry, when the song

Faileth, for joy of the bride!

O Damsels girt in the gold

Of Ilion, cry, cry ye,

For him that is doomed of old

To be lord of me!

O hold the damsel, lest her trancèd feet

Lift her afar, Queen, toward the Hellene fleet!

O Fire, Fire, where men make marriages

Surely thou hast thy lot; but what are these

Thou bringest flashing? Torches savage-wild

And far from mine old dreams.—Alas, my child,

How little dreamed I then of wars or red

Spears of the Greek to lay thy bridal bed!

Give me thy brand; it hath no holy blaze

Thus in thy frenzy flung. Nor all thy days

Nor all thy griefs have changed them yet, nor learned

Wisdom.—Ye women, bear the pine half burned