For supplications, like the pliant gods. Have they not willed a life's thread should be cut? With them the will is changeless as the deed. O men! ye have not learned in all the past, Desires are barren and tears yield no fruit. How long will ye besiege the thrones of gods With lamentations? When lagged Death for all Your timorous shirking? We work not like you, Delaying and relenting, purposeless, With unenduring issues; but our deeds, Forever interchained and interlocked, Complete each other and explain themselves." "Ye will a life: then why not any life?" "What care we for the king? He is not worth These many words; indeed, we love not speech. We care not if he live, or lose such life As men are greedy for,--filled full with hate, Sins beneath scorn, and only lit by dreams, Or one sane moment, or a useless hope,-- Lasting how long?--the space between the green And fading yellow of the grass they tread." But he withdrawing not: "Will any life Suffice ye for Admetus?" "Yea," the crones Three times repeated. "We know no such names As king or queen or slave: we want but life. Begone, and vex us in our work no more." With broken blessings, inarticulate joy And tears, Alcestis thanked Hyperion, And worshipped. Then he gently: "Who will die, So that the king may live?" And she: "You ask? Nay, who will live when life clasps hands with shame, And death with honor? Lo, you are a god; You cannot know the highest joy of life,-- To leave it when 't is worthier to die. His parents, kinsmen, courtiers, subjects, slaves,-- For love of him myself would die, were none Found ready; but what Greek would stand to see A woman glorified, and falter? Once, And only once, the gods will do this thing In all the ages: such a man themselves Delight to honor,--holy, temperate, chaste, With reverence for his daemon and his god." Thus she triumphant to they very door Of King Admetus' chamber. All there saw Her ill-timed gladness with much wonderment. But she: "No longer mourn! The king is saved: The Fates will spare him. Lift your voice in praise; Sing paeans to Apollo; crown your brows With laurel; offer thankful sacrifice!" "O Queen, what mean these foolish words misplaced? And what an hour is this to thank the Fates?" "Thrice blessed be the gods!--for God himself Has sued for me,--they are not stern and deaf. Cry, and they answer: commune with your soul, And they send counsel: weep with rainy grief, And these will sweeten you your bitterest tears. On one condition King Admetus lives, And ye, on hearing, will lament no more, Each emulous to save." Then--for she spake Assured, as having heard an oracle-- They asked: "What deed of ours may serve the king?"