large/1281/shortpoetry_027_librivox_64kb_mp3/helen_of_troy_teasdale_sv_64kb_8
large/1281/shortpoetry_027_librivox_64kb_mp3/helen_of_troy_teasdale_sv_64kb
English
1281
Have I not made the world to weep enough? HAVE I NOT MADE THE WORLD TO WEEP ENOUGH
 duskily. This is the funeral pyre and Troy is dead That sparkled so the day I saw it first, And darkened slowly after. I am she Who loves all beauty -- yet I wither it. Why have the high gods made me wreak their wrath -- Forever since my maidenhood to sow Sorrow and blood about me? Lo, they keep Their bitter care above me even now. It was the gods who led me to this lair, That tho' the burning winds should make me weak, They should not snatch the life from out my lips. Olympus let the other women die; They shall be quiet when the day is done And have no care to-morrow. Yet for me There is no rest. The gods are not so kind To her made half immortal like themselves. It is to you I owe the cruel gift, Leda, my mother, and the Swan, my sire, To you the beauty and to you the bale; For never woman born of man and maid Had wrought such havoc on the earth as I, Or troubled heaven with a sea of flame That climbed to touch the silent whirling stars And blotted out their brightness ere the dawn. HE FLAME'S RED WINGS SOAR UPWARD DUSKILY THIS IS THE FUNERAL PYRE AND TROY IS DEAD THAT SPARKLED SO THE DAY I SAW AT FIRST AND DARKENED SLOWLY AFTER I AM SHE WHO LOVES ALL BEAUTY YET I WITHER IT WHY HAVE THE GODS MADE ME WREAK THEIR WRATH FOR EVER SINCE MY MAIDENHOOD TO SOW SORROW AND BLOOD ABOUT ME LO THEY KEEP THEIR BITTER CARE ABOVE ME EVEN NOW IT WAS THE GODS WHO LED ME TO THIS LAIR THAT THOUGH THE BURNING WINDS SHOULD MAKE ME WEAK THEY SHOULD NOT SNATCH THE LIFE FROM OUT MY LIPS OLYMPUS LET THE OTHER WOMEN DIE THEY SHALL BE QUIET WHEN THE DAY IS DONE AND HAVE NO CARE TO MORROW YET FOR ME THERE IS NO REST THE GODS ARE NOT SO KIND TO HER MAY IT HAVE A WATER LIKE THEMSELVES IT IS TO YOU I OWE THE CRUEL GIFT LEDA MY MOTHER AND THE SWAN MY SIRE TO YOU THE BEAUTY UNTO YOU THE BALE FOR NEVER WOMAN BORN OF MAN OR MAID HAD WROUGHT SUCH HAVOC ON THE EARTH AS I OR TROUBLED HEAVEN WITH A SEA OF FLAME THAT CLIMBED TO TOUCH THE SILENT WHIRLING STARS AND BLOTTED OUT THEIR BRIGHTNESS ERE THE DAWN
large/1281/shortpoetry_027_librivox_64kb_mp3/helen_of_troy_teasdale_sv_64kb
file
download/librilight/large/1281/shortpoetry_027_librivox_64kb_mp3/helen_of_troy_teasdale_sv_64kb.flac