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36 And now my feet tread on the utmost line:

An old, old slave-woman, I pass below

Mine enemies' gates; and whatso task they know

For this age basest, shall be mine; the door,

Bowing, to shut and open. I that bore

Hector! and meal to grind, and this racked head

Bend to the stones after a royal bed;

Torn rags about me, aye, and under them

Torn flesh; 'twill make a woman sick for shame!

Woe's me; and all that one man's arms might hold

One woman, what long seas have o'er me rolled

And roll for ever! O my child, whose white

Soul laughed amid the laughter of God's light,

Cassandra, what hands and how strange a day

Have loosed thy zone! And thou, Polyxena,

Where art thou? And my sons? Not any seed

Of man nor woman now shall help my need.

Why raise me any more? What hope have I

To hold me? Take this slave that once trod high

In Ilion; cast her on her bed of clay

Rock-pillowed, to lie down, and pass away

Wasted with tears. And whatso man they call

Happy, believe not ere the last day fall!

O Muse, be near me now, and make

A strange song for Ilion's sake,

Till a tone of tears be about mine ears

And out of my lips a music break

For Troy, Troy, and the end of the years:

When the wheels of the Greek above me pressed,

And the mighty horse-hoofs beat my breast;

And all around were the Argive spears