WIDOWED ANDROMACHE
“Full in the morning sun I saw him first
And followed him through meadows, flower-massed,
All his steep, toilsome ways, I, too, traversed;
After his battles all his wounds I nursed,
From our tent gazing to the cities passed.
“Then, to the Trojan walls, where battle burned
And every altar had a bloody rim,
I trod his ardent footsteps, though I yearned
For fields so free; but until back he turned
My only way was onward, after him.
“The summons came while I was following, true,
Eager, alert, though bruised by thorn and stone.
Had he but paused to tell me, ere he drew
His cloak about him, what I was to do,
I would have kept the path, yea, all alone!
“But he was silent, answering not my woe.
He muffled him against my prayers and tears.
I raise my arms, hung with the links of years,
Hung with his broken chains, my right to show
But—o’er his Unknown Paths, I may not go!”