Next day Chione brought the god a robe And sandals and a girdle. Thus arrayed Chione took him to her father’s home The ancient soldier, servitor of the gods, And rich in land, and spoke of him as Acteus A merchant from the city. Then the father Gave thanks to Zeus and at the family board Apollo supped, as one who would become Chione’s husband. So it came to pass. They walked together in the bridal train Behind the perfumed torches. All the while Zeus smiled to see Apollo’s punishment. And Hera, who with woman’s subtlety, Knew that there shone within Apollo’s soul A face like to the face of Artemis, His virgin sister, delicate and chaste, And to o’ercome such whiteness and reserve Had been Apollo’s madness from his birth, Laughed freely with the muses as she said: “Thus is the masculine spirit ever caught By its own lure, let Zeus himself take heed Lest sometime he be snared.” So when Olympus Grew dull, the gods for fun looked o’er the ramparts And spied upon Apollo at the board With all Chione’s family; or at night Beside Chione and the little faces Which every year increased. Or on Apollo About his bitter task of shepherding To win the bread for faded Chione And for the children. Thus the nine years passed. Then Zeus, avenged, sent all the muses down To bring Apollo back, and to Olympus Humbled and sorrowful he came again, With wrinkles and a touch of whitened hair, And a lack-lustre eye, which all the art Of Aphrodite after many days Could scarce remove. Then Chione told her father That Acteus was not a merchant from the city. “Too late,” she said, “I found he had deceived me And masked his shepherd calling.” To which her father The ancient soldier, servitor of the gods And rich in land: “Yea, daughter, he deceived you. Now he has run away, abandoned you, May the gods note it and avenge the wrong.” STEAM SHOVEL CUT Steam Shovel Cut lies through a wood, And the trestle’s at the end. And north are the lonely Fillmore Hills, And south the river’s bend. It’s Christmas day and the blue on the hill Is flapped by a flying crow. And the steel of the railroad track is cold, And the Cut is piled with snow. What is that there by the trestle’s end Where the Cut slopes down to the slough? That’s Cora Williams lying there In her cloak of faded blue. Her skirt is red as a northern spy, And her mittens blackberry black. And under her cotton underskirt There’s a green place on her back. Her little gray hat is over her brow, And covers a purple bruise. She had white stockings for her feet And the holes were in her shoes.