Ye stoic angels wont to wait on me,
And with the cords of resolution stout
Bind ye my purpose to the throne of Zeus
That it may shake but with Olympus' self!
... Will she not think me harsh to leave her so?
She who is made of all earth's gentle things—
The scent of morn, the first green on the bough,
The valley dews where infant blossoms drink,
The going light with rose heart yearning back,—
Yet brave, and like a new Hippolita