On the lip of the stream low-laughing Her green soft virginal shoot Was plucked from the stream-side cover By the grasp of a love like death. For a God's was the mouth that kissed her [_Str._ 5. Who speaks, and the leaves lie dead, When winter awakes as at warning To the sound of his foot from Thrace. 210 Nor happier the bed of her sister Though Love's self laid her abed By a bridegroom beloved of the morning And fair as the dawn's own face. For Procris, ensnared and ensnaring [_Ant._ 5. By the fraud of a twofold wile, With the point of her own spear stricken By the gift of her own hand fell. Oversubtle in doubts, overdaring In deeds and devices of guile, 220 And strong to quench as to quicken, O Love, have we named thee well? By thee was the spear's edge whetted [_Str._ 6. That laid her dead in the dew, In the moist green glens of the midland By her dear lord slain and thee. And him at the cliff's end fretted By the grey keen waves, him too, Thine hand from the white-browed headland Flung down for a spoil to the sea. 230 But enough now of griefs grey-growing [_Ant._ 6. Have darkened the house divine, Have flowered on its boughs and faded, And green is the brave stock yet. O father all-seeing and all-knowing, Let the last fruit fall not of thine From the tree with whose boughs we are shaded, From the stock that thy son's hand set. ERECHTHEUS.