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She hath died her death, and howso dark it be,

Her death is sweeter than my misery.

Death cannot be what Life is, Child; the cup

Of Death is empty, and Life hath always hope.

O Mother, having ears, hear thou this word

Fear-conquering, till thy heart as mine be stirred

With joy. To die is only not to be;

And better to be dead than grievously

Living. They have no pain, they ponder not

Their own wrong. But the living that is brought

From joy to heaviness, his soul doth roam,

As in a desert, lost, from its old home.

Thy daughter lieth now as one unborn,

Dead, and naught knowing of the lust and scorn

That slew her. And I long since I drew my bow

Straight at the heart of good fame; and I know

My shaft hit; and for that am I the more

Fallen from peace. All that men praise us for,

I loved for Hector's sake, and sought to win.

I knew that alway, be there hurt therein

Or utter innocence, to roam abroad

Hath ill report for women; so I trod

Down the desire thereof, and walked my way

In mine own garden. And light words and gay