Classic Poem

Lift my head, help me up,
I am bruised, bone and flesh;
chafe my white hands, my servants:
this weight about my forehead?
Ah, my veil — loose it —
spread my hair across my breast. TROPHOS

There, do not start,
child, nor toss about;
only calm and high pride
can help your hurt:
fate tries all alike. PHAEDRA
Ai, ai! to drink deep
of spring water
from its white source;
ai, ai! for rest — black poplars —

thick grass — sleep TROPHOS
What is this you ask,
wild words, mad speech —
hide your hurt, my heart,
hide your hurt
before these servants. PHAEDRA

Take me to the mountains!
O for woods, pine tracts,
where hounds athirst for death,
leap on the bright stags!
God, how I would shout to the beasts
with my gold hair torn loose;
I would shake the Thessalian dart,
I would hurl the barbed arrow from my grasp. TROPHOS

Why, so distraught,
child, child, why the chase
and this cold water you would ask:
but we may get you that
from deep rills that cut the slopes
before the gate. PHAEDRA

Artemis of the salt beach
and of the sea-coast,
mistress of the race-course,
trodden of swift feet,
O for your flat sands
where I might mount
with goad and whip
the horses of Enetas.