Who are you? No, no, no! Stand farther off! You pulse and glow; you are too vital; your presence hurts ... Freshness of hill-swards, wind and trodden ling, I should have known that Goneril stands here. It is yet dawn, but you have been afoot Afar and long: where could you climb so soon? Goneril: Dearest, I am an evil daughter to you: I never thought of you--O, never once-- Until I heard a moor-bird cry like you. I am wicked, rapt in joys of breath and life, And I must force myself to think of you. I leave you to caretakers' cold gentleness; But O, I did not think that they dare leave you. What woman should be here? Hygd: I have forgot ... I know not ... She will be about some duty. I do not matter: my time is done ... nigh done ... Bought hands can well prepare me for a grave, And all the generations must serve youth. My girls shall live untroubled while they may, And learn happiness once while yet blind men Have injured not their freedom; For women are not meant for happiness. Where have you been, my falcon? Goneril: I dreamt that I was swimming, shoulder up, And drave the bed-clothes spreading to the floor: Coldness awoke me; through the waning darkness I heard far hounds give shivering aery tongue, Remote, withdrawing, suddenly faint and near; I leapt and saw a pack of stretching weasels Hunt a pale coney in a soundless rush, Their elfin and thin yelping pierced my heart As with an unseen beauty long awaited; Wolf-skin and cloak I buckled over this night-gear, And took my honoured spear from my bed-side Where none but I may touch its purity, And sped as lightly down the dewy bank As any mothy owl that hunts quick mice. They went crying, crying, but I lost them Before I stept, with the first tips of light, On Raven Crag near by the Druid Stones; So I paused there and, stooping, pressed my hand Against the stony bed of the clear stream; Then entered I the circle and raised up My shining hand in cold stern adoration Even as the first great gleam went up the sky. Hygd: Ay, you do well to worship on that height: Life is free to the quick up in the wind, And the wind bares you for a god's descent-- For wind is a spirit immediate and aged. And you do well to worship harsh men-gods, God Wind and Those who built his Stones with him: All gods are cruel, bitter, and to be bribed, But women-gods are mean and cunning as well. That fierce old virgin, Cornish Merryn, prays To a young woman, yes and even a virgin-- The poorest kind of woman--and she says That is to be a Christian: avoid then Her worship most, for men hate such denials, And any woman scorns her unwed daughter. Where sped you from that height? Did Regan join you there? Goneril: