CASSANDRA.

Poor woman!  Poor dead woman! ...  Yea, it is I,
  Poured out like water among them.  Weep for me.... 
  Ah!  What is this place?  Why must I come with thee.... 
    To die, only to die?

LEADER.

Thou art borne on the breath of God, thou spirit wild,
  For thine own weird to wail,
Like to that winged voice, that heart so sore
Which, crying alway, hungereth to cry more,
“Itylus, Itylus,” till it sing her child
  Back to the nightingale.

CASSANDRA.

Oh, happy Singing Bird, so sweet, so clear! 
  Soft wings for her God made,
And an easy passing, without pain or tear ... 
For me ’twill be torn flesh and rending blade.

SECOND ELDER.

Whence is it sprung, whence wafted on God’s breath,
  This anguish reasonless? 
This throbbing of terror shaped to melody,
Moaning of evil blent with music high? 
Who hath marked out for thee that mystic path
  Through thy woe’s wilderness?

CASSANDRA.

Alas for the kiss, the kiss of Paris, his people’s bane! 
Alas for Scamander Water, the water my fathers drank! 
Long, long ago, I played about thy bank,
  And was cherished and grew strong;
Now by a River of Wailing, by shores of Pain,
  Soon shall I make my song.

LEADER.

  How sayst thou?  All too clear,
This ill word thou hast laid upon thy mouth! 
    A babe could read thee plain. 
It stabs within me like a serpent’s tooth,
The bitter thrilling music of her pain: 
    I marvel as I hear.

CASSANDRA.

Alas for the toil, the toil of a City, worn unto death! 
Alas for my father’s worship before the citadel,
The flocks that bled and the tumult of their breath! 
  But no help from them came
To save Troy Towers from falling as they fell!... 
And I on the earth shall writhe, my heart aflame.

SECOND ELDER.

Dark upon dark, new ominous words of ill! 
  Sure there hath swept on thee some Evil Thing,
    Crushing, which makes thee bleed
  And in the torment of thy vision sing
These plaining death-fraught oracles ...  Yet still, still,
    Their end I cannot read!

CASSANDRA.
  [By an effort she regains mastery of herself, and speaks directly to
the Leader.

’Fore God, mine oracle shall no more hide
With veils his visage, like a new-wed bride! 
A shining wind out of this dark shall blow,
Piercing the dawn, growing as great waves grow,
To burst in the heart of sunrise ... stronger far
Than this poor pain of mine.  I will not mar
With mists my wisdom. 
                      Be near me as I go,
Tracking the evil things of long ago,
And bear me witness.  For this roof, there clings
Music about it, like a choir which sings
One-voiced, but not well-sounding, for not good
The words are.  Drunken, drunken, and with blood,