  (Artemis speaks.) THE cornel-trees uplift from the furrows, the roots at their bases, strike lower through the barley-sprays. So arise and face me. I am poisoned with the rage of song. I once pierced the flesh of the wild deer, now I am afraid to touch the blue and the gold-veined hyacinths? I will tear the full flowers and the little heads of the grape-hyacinths, I will strip the life from the bulb until the ivory layers lie like narcissus petals on the black earth. Arise, lest I bend an ash-tree and slay—and tear all the roots from the earth. The cornel-wood blazes and strikes through the barley-sprays but I have lost heart for this. I break a staff, I break the tough branch. I know no light in the woods. I have lost pace with the wind. |
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