PENTHESILEA by ANDREW LANG

[Queen of the Amazons, slain by Achilles on the plains of Troy. ]

THEN from her locks the helm Achilles tore
And boasted o'er the slain: but lo , the face
Of her thus lying in the dust and gore
Seem'd lovelier than is the maiden grace
Of Artemis when, weary from the chase,
She sleepeth in a haunted dell unknown.
And all the Argives marvelled for a space,
But most Achilles made a heavy moan.

And in his heart there came the weary thought
Of all that was, and all that might have been;
Of all the sorrow that his sword had wrought;
Of Death that now drew near him; of the green
Vales of Larissa , where, with such a queen,
With such a love as now his spear had slain,
He had been happy, who must wind the skein
Of grievous wars, and ne'er be glad again.

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