[Artemis speaks]
               The cornel-trees
               uplift from the furrows,               
               the roots at their bases
               strike lower through the barley-sprays.

               So arise and face me.
               I am poisoned with the rage of song.

                         I once pierced the flesh
                         of the wild-deer,
                         now am I afraid to touch
                         the blue and the gold-veined hyacinths?

                         I will tear the full flowers
                         and the little heads
                         of the grape-hyacinths.
                         I will strip the life from the bulb
                         until the ivory layers
                         lie like narcissus petals
                         on the black earth.

                         Arise, 
                         lest I bend an ash-tree
                         into a taut bow, 
                         and slay—and tear
                         all the roots from the earth.

               The cornel-wood blazes
               and strikes through the barley-sprays,
               but I have lost heart for this.

               I break a staff.
               I break the tough branch.
               I know no light in the woods.
               I have lost pace with the winds.