None moved in spirit for them, naked and slain,
  Abhorred, abased, and no tears comfort them:’ 
  And in the dark this grieve Eurythemis,
  Hearing how these her sons come down to her
  Unburied, unavenged, as kinless men,
  And had a queen their sister.  That were shame
  Worse than this grief.  Yet how to atone at all
  I know not, seeing the love of my born son,
  A new-made mother’s new-born love, that grows
  From the soft child to the strong man, now soft
  Now strong as either, and still one sole same love,
  Strives with me, no light thing to strive withal;
  This love is deep, and natural to man’s blood,
  And ineffaceable with many tears. 
  Yet shall not these rebuke me though I die,
  Nor she in that waste world with all her dead,
  My mother, among the pale flocks fallen as leaves,
  Folds of dead people, and alien from the sun;
  Nor lack some bitter comfort, some poor praise,
  Being queen, to have borne her daughter like a queen,
  Righteous; and though mine own fire burn me too,
  She shall have honour and these her sons, though dead. 
  But all the gods will, all they do, and we
  Not all we would, yet somewhat, and one choice
  We have, to live and do just deeds and die.

  Chorus.

  Terrible words she communes with, and turns
  Swift fiery eyes in doubt against herself,
  And murmurs as who talks in dreams with death.

  Althaea.

  For the unjust also dieth, and him all men
  Hate, and himself abhors the unrighteousness,
  And seeth his own dishonour intolerable. 
  But I being just, doing right upon myself,
  Slay mine own soul, and no man born shames me. 
  For none constrains nor shall rebuke, being done,
  What none compelled me doing, thus these things fare. 
  Ah, ah, that such things should so fare, ah me,
  That I am found to do them and endure,
  Chosen and constrained to choose, and bear myself
  Mine own wound through mine own flesh to the heart
  Violently stricken, a spoiler and a spoil,
  A ruin ruinous, fallen on mine own son. 
  Ah, ah, for me too as for these; alas,
  For that is done that shall be, and mine hand
  Full of the deed, and full of blood mine eyes,
  That shall see never nor touch anything
  Save blood unstanched and fire unquenchable.

  Chorus.

  What wilt thou do? what ails thee? for the house
  Shakes ruinously; wilt thou bring fire for it?

  Althaea.

  Fire in the roofs, and on the lintels fire. 
  Lo ye, who stand and weave, between the doors,
  There; and blood drips from hand and thread, and stains
  Threshold and raiment and me passing in
  Flecked with the sudden sanguine drops of death.

  Chorus.

  Alas that time is stronger than strong men,
  Fate than all gods:  and these are fallen on us.