Thou, girt with sorrow of heart,
      Thou, sprung of the seed of the seas
    As an ear from a seed of corn,
        As a brand plucked forth of a pyre,
    As a ray shed forth of the morn,
      For division of soul and disease,
    For a dart and a sting and a thorn?
    What ailed thee then to be born?

    Was there not evil enough,
      Mother, and anguish on earth
      Born with a man at his birth,
    Wastes underfoot, and above
      Storm out of heaven, and dearth
    Shaken down from the shining thereof,
        Wrecks from afar overseas
      And peril of shallow and firth,
        And tears that spring and increase
      In the barren places of mirth,
    That thou, having wings as a dove,
      Being girt with desire for a girth,
        That thou must come after these,
    That thou must lay on him love?

    Thou shouldst not so have been born:
      But death should have risen with thee,
        Mother, and visible fear,
          Grief, and the wringing of hands,
    And noise of many that mourn;
      The smitten bosom, the knee
        Bowed, and in each man's ear
        A cry as of perishing lands,
    A moan as of people in prison,
      A tumult of infinite griefs;
          And thunder of storm on the sands,
        And wailing of wives on the shore;
    And under thee newly arisen
      Loud shoals and shipwrecking reefs,
          Fierce air and violent light,
        Sail rent and sundering oar,
          Darkness; and noises of night;
    Clashing of streams in the sea,
      Wave against wave as a sword,
        Clamour of currents, and foam,
          Rains making ruin on earth,
        Winds that wax ravenous and roam
      As wolves in a wolfish horde;
    Fruits growing faint in the tree,
          And blind things dead in their birth
        Famine, and blighting of corn,
        When thy time was come to be born.

    All these we know of; but thee
      Who shall discern or declare?
    In the uttermost ends of the sea
        The light of thine eyelids and hair.
          The light of thy bosom as fire
          Between the wheel of the sun
      And the flying flames of the air?
        Wilt thou turn thee not yet nor have pity,
    But abide with despair and desire
      And the crying of armies undone,
          Lamentation of one with another
        And breaking of city by city;
      The dividing of friend against friend,
          The severing of brother and brother;
      Wilt thou utterly bring to an end?
          Have mercy, mother!

    For against all men from of old
      Thou hast set thine hand as a curse,
        And cast out gods from their places.
          These things are spoken of thee.
    Strong kings and goodly with gold
      Thou hast found out arrows to pierce,
        And made their kingdoms and races
          As dust and surf of the sea.
    All these, overburdened with woes
      And with length of their days waxen weak,
        Thou slewest; and sentest moreover
          Upon Tyro an evil thing,
    Rent hair and a fetter and blows
      Making bloody the flower of the cheek,
        Though she lay by a god as a lover,
          Though fair, and the seed of a king.
    For of old, being full of thy fire,
      She endured not longer to wear
        On her bosom a saffron vest,
          On her shoulder an ashwood quiver;
    Being mixed and made one through desire
      With Enipeus, and all her hair
        Made moist with his mouth, and her breast
          Filled full of the foam of the river.

ATALANTA

  Sun, and clear light among green hills, and day
  Late risen and long sought after, and you just gods
  Whose hands divide anguish and recompense,
  But first the sun's white sister, a maid in heaven,
  On earth of all maids worshipped—hail, and hear,
  And witness with me if not without sign sent,
  Not without rule and reverence, I a maid
  Hallowed, and huntress holy as whom I serve,
  Here in your sight and eyeshot of these men
  Stand, girt as they toward hunting, and my shafts
  Drawn; wherefore all ye stand up on my side,
  If I be pure and all ye righteous gods,
  Lest one revile me, a woman, yet no wife,
  That bear a spear for spindle, and this bow strung
  For a web woven; and with pure lips salute
  Heaven, and the face of all the gods, and dawn
  Filling with maiden flames and maiden flowers
  The starless fold o' the stars, and making sweet
  The warm wan heights of the air, moon-trodden ways
  And breathless gates and extreme hills of heaven.
  Whom, having offered water and bloodless gifts,
  Flowers, and a golden circlet of pure hair,
  Next Artemis I bid be favourable
  And make this day all golden, hers and ours,
  Gracious and good and white to the unblamed end.
  But thou, O well-beloved, of all my days
  Bid it be fruitful, and a crown for all,
  To bring forth leaves and bind round all my hair
  With perfect chaplets woven for thine of thee.
  For not without the word of thy chaste mouth,
  For not without law given and clean command,
  Across the white straits of the running sea
  From Elis even to the Acheloïan horn,
  I with clear winds came hither and gentle gods,
  Far off my father's house, and left uncheered
  Iasius, and uncheered the Arcadian hills
  And all their green-haired waters, and all woods
  Disconsolate, to hear no horn of mine
  Blown, and behold no flash of swift white feet.

MELEAGER.