Cried out for vengeance, still I pitied him: pity was passion’s food.
My soul sat in his shadow: like a babe
Beneath an oak it sat, and smiled, and crowed,
And lifted up and clapped its happy hands, and wildly laughed aloud.
That night I sought his cell: O, happy night,
O, night of light and life: the magic clew
That Dædälos wrought was in his hands; I drank his red lip’s nectarous dew,
For he, too, loved! O, Jove, my long-caged heart
In that mad moment felt its shackles riven,
And soared and soared and soared, till, like a star, it coursed the heights of heaven.