As if they were another’s on the rack,
Stood by them, bent and weeping.
All were there
When Artemis, the doorlight shut behind her,
Shouted. Even Aphrodite smiled
And innocently listened, fair as ever
In the fine light that clothed her—no more gypsy,
And no more theater woman. Even Ares—
All of them were there, with lame Hephaestus
Filling his low place among the pear trees,