Now the Strong Man amid the green space stayed, And leaning on his club, with eager eyes But brow yet smooth, in voice yet friendly said: "O daughters of old Hesperus the Wise, Well have ye held your guard here; but time tries The very will of gods, and to my hand Must give this day the gold fruit of your land." Then spake the first maid--sweet as the west wind Amidst of summer noon her sweet voice was: "Ah, me! what knows this place of changing mind Of men or gods; here shall long ages pass, And clean forget thy feet upon the grass, Thy hapless bones amid the fruitful mould; Look at thy death envenomed swift and cold!" Hiding new flowers, the dull coils, as she spake, Moved near her limbs: but then the second one, In such a voice as when the morn doth wake To song of birds, said, "When the world foredone Has moaned its last, still shall we dwell alone Beneath this bough, and have no tales to tell Of things deemed great that on the earth befell." Then spake the third, in voice as of the flute That wakes the maiden to her wedding morn: "If any god should gain our golden fruit, Its curse would make his deathless life forlorn. Lament thou, then, that ever thou wert born; Yet all things, changed by joy or loss or pain, To what they were shall change and change again." "So be it," he said, "the Fates that drive me on Shall slay me or shall save; blessing or curse That followeth after when the thing is won Shall make my work no better now nor worse; And if it be that the world's heart must nurse Hatred against me, how then shall I choose To leave or take?--let your dread servant loose!" E'en therewith, like a pillar of black smoke, Swift, shifting ever, drave the worm at him; In deadly silence now that nothing broke, Its folds were writhing round him trunk and limb, Until his glittering gear was nought but dim E'en in that sunshine, while his head and side And breast the fork-tongued, pointed muzzle tried. Closer the coils drew, quicker all about The forked tongue darted, and yet stiff he stood, E'en as an oak that sees the straw flare out And lick its ancient bole for little good: Until the godlike fury of his mood Burst from his heart in one great shattering cry, And rattling down the loosened coils did lie; And from the torn throat and crushed dreadful head Forth flowed a stream of blood along the grass; Bright in the sun he stood above the dead, Panting with fury; yet as ever was The wont of him, soon did his anger pass, And with a happy smile at last he turned To where the apples o'er the water burned.