Of trees, and scenting midnight with its malice.
Artemis, more angry than the rest,
More like the moon, declining now so clear,
So cold, beyond the body of this grove,
Remembered the dead fawn. “So with that child,”
She brooded. “If the farmer man confesses,
Nothing but grief will grow where you and I—”
She took Athene’s hand—“have wisely tilled
And planted. Never then will the boy serve,
With loving care, my cause—the cause of the world,