Of the newborn things whose nurture saves the world.
The farmer would have let the maiden go—
Sadly, yet Apollo made it sure.
Or so we said who listened. Yet that one,
That laughing one, pursues him now and sings,
And sings—oh, what low song, what tale of the flesh,
What burden that may topple his intention?
Hephaestus, our contriver, you could seal
His ears, his sleeping eyelids, if you would;
Even tonight you could.”