Oh, wild words! Did ye hear her cry
          To them that guard man's faith forsworn,
          Themis and Zeus? . . . This wrath new-born
   Shall make mad workings ere it die.

           Would she but come to seek
               Our faces, that love her well,
               And take to her heart the spell
                     Of words that speak?

           Alas for the heavy hate
               And anger that burneth ever!
           Would it but now abate,
           Ah God, I love her yet.
               And surely my love's endeavour
                     Shall fail not here.

           Go: from that chamber drear
                  Forth to the day
           Lead her, and say, Oh, say
                  That we love her dear.

           Go, lest her hand be hard
               On the innocent: Ah, let be!
           For her grief moves hitherward,
                    Like an angry sea.

   That will I: though what words of mine
       Or love shall move her? Let them lie
       With the old lost labours! . . . Yet her eye—
   Know ye the eyes of the wild kine,

   The lion flash that guards their brood?
       So looks she now if any thrall
       Speak comfort, or draw near at all
   My mistress in her evil mood.

         Alas, the bold blithe bards of old
             That all for joy their music made,
         For feasts and dancing manifold,
             That Life might listen and be glad.

         But all the darkness and the wrong,
             Quick deaths and dim heart-aching things,
         Would no man ease them with a song
             Or music of a thousand strings?

         Then song had served us in our need.
             What profit, o'er the banquet's swell
         That lingering cry that none may heed?
             The feast hath filled them: all is well!

       I heard a song, but it comes no more.
             Where the tears ran over:
       A keen cry but tired, tired:
       A woman's cry for her heart's desired,
           For a traitor's kiss and a lost lover.