Althaea.

  A little since and I was glad; and now
  I never shall be glad or sad again.

  Chorus.

  Between two joys a grief grows unaware.

  Althaea.

  A little while and I shall laugh; and then
  I shall weep never and laugh not any more.

  Chorus.

  What shall be said? for words are thorns to grief. 
  Withhold thyself a little and fear the gods.

  Althaea.

  Fear died when these were slain; and I am as dead,
  And fear is of the living; these fear none.

  Chorus.

  Have pity upon all people for their sake.

  Althaea.

  It is done now, shall I put back my day?

  Chorus.

  An end is come, an end; this is of God.

  Althaea.

  I am fire, and burn myself, keep clear of fire.

  Chorus.

  The house is broken, is broken; it shall not stand.

  Althaea.

  Woe, woe for him that breaketh; and a rod
  Smote it of old, and now the axe is here.

  Chorus.

    Not as with sundering of the earth
      Nor as with cleaving of the sea
    Nor fierce foreshadowings of a birth
      Nor flying dreams of death to be
    Nor loosening of the large world’s girth
    And quickening of the body of night,
      And sound of thunder in men’s ears
    And fire of lightning in men’s sight,
      Fate, mother of desires and fears,
      Bore unto men the law of tears;
    But sudden, an unfathered flame,
      And broken out of night, she shone,
    She, without body, without name,
      In days forgotten and foregone;
    And heaven rang round her as she came
    Like smitten cymbals, and lay bare,
      Clouds and great stars, thunders and snows,
    The blue sad fields and folds of air,
      The life that breathes, the life that grows,
      All wind, all fire, that burns or blows,
    Even all these knew her:  for she is great;
      The daughter of doom, the mother of death,
    The sister of sorrow; a lifelong weight
      That no man’s finger lighteneth,
    Nor any god can lighten fate,
    A landmark seen across the way
      Where one race treads as the other trod;
    An evil sceptre, an evil stay,
      Wrought for a staff, wrought for a rod,
      The bitter jealousy of God.

    For death is deep as the sea,
      And fate as the waves thereof. 
    Shall the waves take pity on thee
      Or the southwind offer thee love? 
    Wilt thou take the night for thy day
      Or the darkness for light on thy way,
    Till thou say in thine heart Enough? 
  Behold, thou art over fair, thou art over wise;
  The sweetness of spring in thine hair, and the light in thine eyes. 
  The light of the spring in thine eyes,