steel
  And shining shapes of mirror and bright crown
  And all things fair; and threw light spears, and brought
  Young hounds to huddle at my feet and thrust
  Tame heads against my little maiden breasts
  And please me with great eyes; and those days went
  And these are bitter and I a barren queen
  And sister miserable, a grievous thing
  And mother of many curses; and she too,
  My sister Leda, sitting overseas
  With fair fruits round her, and her faultless lord,
  Shall curse me, saying A sorrow and not a son,
  Sister, thou barest, even a burning fire,
  A brand consuming thine own soul and me. 
  But ye now, sons of Thestius, make good cheer,
  For ye shall have such wood to funeral fire
  As no king hath; and flame that once burnt down
  Oil shall not quicken or breath relume or wine
  Refresh again; much costlier than fine gold,
  And more than many lives of wandering men.

  Chorus.

  O queen, thou hast yet with thee love-worthy things,
  Thine husband, and the great strength of thy son.

  Althaea.

  Who shall get brothers for me while I live? 
  Who bear them? who bring forth in lieu of these? 
  Are not our fathers and our brethren one,
  And no man like them? are not mine here slain? 
  Have we not hung together, he and I,
  Flowerwise feeding as the feeding bees,
  With mother-milk for honey? and this man too,
  Dead, with my son’s spear thrust between his sides,
  Hath he not seen us, later born than he,
  Laugh with lips filled, and laughed again for love? 
  There were no sons then in the world, nor spears,
  Nor deadly births of women; but the gods
  Allowed us, and our days were clear of these. 
  I would I had died unwedded, and brought forth
  No swords to vex the world; for these that spake
  Sweet words long since and loved me will not speak
  Nor love nor look upon me; and all my life
  I shall not hear nor see them living men. 
  But I too living, how shall I now live? 
  What life shall this be with my son, to know
  What hath been and desire what will not be,
  Look for dead eyes and listen for dead lips,
  And kill mine own heart with remembering them,
  And with those eyes that see their slayer alive
  Weep, and wring hands that clasp him by the hand? 
  How shall I bear my dreams of them, to hear
  False voices, feel the kisses of false mouths
  And footless sound of perished feet, and then
  Wake and hear only it may be their own hounds
  Whine masterless in miserable sleep,
  And see their boar-spears and their beds and seats
  And all the gear and housings of their lives
  And not the men? shall hounds and horses mourn,
  Pine with strange eyes, and prick up hungry ears,
  Famish and fail at heart for their dear lords,
  And I not heed at all? and those blind