108 
CLYTIE 
 
 
I throw myself upon the grass ;  I wail, a lone wolf, to the 
moon ;   
Huddled and hunched, a moaning mass—How near God 
was those nights of June !   
 
Death !  the mere thought of it !  For now—where is the 
ship ?  where is my man ?   
The blood is bursting from my brow ;  my choked shrieks 
prostitute to Pan !   
 
Great Pan it is that thrusts his sword into my throat and 
strangles me !   
Great Pan that clubs me on the sward with his robust 
brutality !   
 
Ah no !  ah no !  Let me go blind rather than let that face 
of fear 
Swollen, its black indenture signed with blood, most 
maculate, appear ! 
 
Come then, O ship, the dream is past !  Could not I watch 
and wait an hour ?   
Nay, by the Gods, what gallant mast cuts yon horizon like 
a tower ?   
 
He comes, he comes, he comes.  Oh hither, mine hand-
maids, bind me neck to knee, 
Lest I should fling my body thither—where my soul 
stands—across the sea.