“O mother Ida, manyfountained Ida, Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. Hear me O Earth, hear me O Hills, O Caves That house the cold crowned snake! O mountain brooks, I am the daughter of a River-God, Hear me, for I will speak, and build up all My sorrow with my song, as yonder walls Rose slowly to a music slowly breathed, A cloud that gathered shape: for it may be That, while I speak of it, a little while My heart may wander from its deeper woe. “O mother Ida, manyfountained Ida, Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. Aloft the mountain lawn was dewydark, And dewydark aloft the mountain pine; Beautiful Paris, evil-hearted Paris, Leading a jetblack goat whitehorned, whitehooved, Came up from reedy Simois all alone. “O mother Ida, hearken ere I die. I sate alone: the goldensandalled morn Rosehued the scornful hills: I sate alone With downdropt eyes: white-breasted like a star Fronting the dawn he came: a leopard skin From his white shoulder drooped: his sunny hair Clustered about his temples like a God’s: And his cheek brightened, as the foambow brightens When the wind blows the foam; and I called out, ‘Welcome Apollo, welcome home Apollo, Apollo, my Apollo, loved Apollo’. “Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. He, mildly smiling, in his milk-white palm Close-held a golden apple, lightningbright With changeful flashes, dropt with dew of Heaven Ambrosially smelling. From his lip, Curved crimson, the full-flowing river of speech Came down upon my heart. “‘My own Œnone, Beautifulbrowed Œnone, mine own soul, Behold this fruit, whose gleaming rind ingrav’n “For the most fair,” in aftertime may breed Deep evilwilledness of heaven and sore Heartburning toward hallowed Ilion; And all the colour of my afterlife Will be the shadow of to-day. To-day Herè and Pallas and the floating grace Of laughter-loving Aphrodite meet In manyfolded Ida to receive This meed of beauty, she to whom my hand Award the palm. Within the green hillside, Under yon whispering tuft of oldest pine, Is an ingoing grotto, strown with spar And ivymatted at the mouth, wherein Thou unbeholden may’st behold, unheard Hear all, and see thy Paris judge of Gods.’ “Dear mother Ida, hearken ere I die. It was the deep midnoon: one silvery cloud Had lost his way between the piney hills. They came—all three—the Olympian goddesses. Naked they came to the smoothswarded bower, Lustrous with lilyflower, violeteyed Both white and blue, with lotetree-fruit thickset, Shadowed with singing-pine; and all the while, Above, the overwandering ivy and vine This way and that in many a wild festoon Ran riot, garlanding the gnarled boughs With bunch and berry and flower thro’ and thro’. On the treetops a golden glorious cloud Leaned, slowly dropping down ambrosial dew. How beautiful they were, too beautiful To look upon! but Paris was to me More lovelier than all the world beside.