“O mother, here me yet before I die. Hath he not sworn his love a thousand times, In this green valley, under this green hill, Ev’n on this hand, and sitting on this stone? Seal’d it with kisses? water’d it with tears? O happy tears, and how unlike to these! O happy Heaven, how canst thou see my face? O happy earth, how canst thou bear my weight? O death, death, death, thou ever-floating cloud, There are enough unhappy on this earth, Pass by the happy souls, that love to live: I pray thee, pass before my light of life, And shadow all my soul, that I may die. Thou weighest heavy on the heart within, Weigh heavy on my eyelids: let me die. “O mother, hear me yet before I die. I will not die alone, for fiery thoughts Do shape themselves within me, more and more, Whereof I catch the issue, as I hear Dead sounds at night come from the inmost hills, Like footsteps upon wool. I dimly see My far-off doubtful purpose, as a mother Conjectures of the features of her child Ere it is born: her child!—a shudder comes Across me: never child be born of me, Unblest, to vex me with his father’s eyes! “O mother, hear me yet before I die. Hear me, O earth. I will not die alone, Lest their shrill happy laughter come to me Walking the cold and starless road of Death Uncomforted, leaving my ancient love With the Greek woman.[19] I will rise and go Down into Troy, and ere the stars come forth Talk with the wild Cassandra,[20] for she says A fire dances before her, and a sound Rings ever in her ears of armed men. What this may be I know not, but I know That, wheresoe’er I am by night and day, All earth and air seem only burning fire.” 1833 There is a dale in Ida, lovelier Than any in old Ionia, beautiful With emerald slopes of sunny sward, that lean Above the loud glenriver, which hath worn A path thro’ steepdown granite walls below Mantled with flowering tendriltwine. In front The cedarshadowy valleys open wide. Far-seen, high over all the God-built wall And many a snowycolumned range divine, Mounted with awful sculptures—men and Gods, The work of Gods—bright on the dark-blue sky The windy citadel of Ilion Shone, like the crown of Troas. Hither came Mournful Œnone wandering forlorn Of Paris, once her playmate. Round her neck, Her neck all marblewhite and marblecold, Floated her hair or seemed to float in rest. She, leaning on a vine-entwinèd stone, Sang to the stillness, till the mountain-shadow Sloped downward to her seat from the upper cliff. “O mother Ida, manyfountained Ida, Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. The grasshopper is silent in the grass, The lizard with his shadow on the stone Sleeps like a shadow, and the scarletwinged[21] Cicala in the noonday leapeth not Along the water-rounded granite-rock. The purple flower droops: the golden bee Is lilycradled: I alone awake. My eyes are full of tears, my heart of love, My heart is breaking and my eyes are dim, And I am all aweary of my life.