_An Older Woman_ Nay--know yet not?--this burden hath alway lain On the devious being of woman; yea, burdens twain, The burden of Wild Will and the burden of Pain. Through my heart once that wind of terror sped; But I, in fear confessèd, Cried from the dark to Her in heavenly bliss, The Helper of Pain, the Bow-Maid Artemis: Whose feet I praise for ever, where they tread Far off among the blessèd! THE LEADER But see, the Queen's grey nurse at the door, Sad-eyed and sterner, methinks, than of yore With the Queen. Doth she lead her hither To the wind and sun?--Ah, fain would I know What strange betiding hath blanched that brow And made that young life wither. [_The NURSE comes out from the central door followed by_ PHAEDRA, _who is supported by two handmaids. They make ready a couch for_ PHAEDRA _to lie upon_.] NURSE O sick and sore are the days of men! What wouldst thou? What shall I change again Here is the Sun for thee; here is the sky; And thy weary pillows wind-swept lie, By the castle door. But the cloud of thy brow is dark, I ween; And soon thou wilt back to thy bower within: So swift to change is the path of thy feet, And near things hateful, and far things sweet; So was it before! Oh, pain were better than tending pain! For that were single, and this is twain, With grief of heart and labour of limb. Yet all man's life is but ailing and dim, And rest upon earth comes never. But if any far-off state there be, Dearer than life to mortality; The hand of the Dark hath hold thereof, And mist is under and mist above. And so we are sick of life, and cling On earth to this nameless and shining thing. For other life is a fountain sealed, And the deeps below are unrevealed, And we drift on legends for ever! [PHAEDRA _during this has been laid on her couch; she speaks to the handmaids_.] PHAEDRA Yes; lift me: not my head so low. There, hold my arms.--Fair arms they seem!-- My poor limbs scarce obey me now! Take off that hood that weighs my brow, And let my long hair stream. NURSE Nay, toss not, Child, so feveredly. The sickness best will win relief By quiet rest and constancy. All men have grief. PHAEDRA (_not noticing her_) Oh for a deep and dewy spring, With runlets cold to draw and drink! And a great meadow blossoming, Long-grassed, and poplars in a ring, To rest me by the brink! NURSE Nay, Child! Shall strangers hear this tone So wild, and thoughts so fever-flown? PHAEDRA Oh, take me to the Mountain! Oh, Pass the great pines and through the wood, Up where the lean hounds softly go, A-whine for wild things' blood, And madly flies the dappled roe. O God, to shout and speed them there, An arrow by my chestnut hair Drawn tight, and one keen glimmering spear-- Ah! if I could!