Leader.
No great interpreter of oracles
Am I; but this, I think, some mischief spells.
What spring of good hath seercraft ever made
Up from the dark to flow?
'Tis but a weaving of words, a craft of woe,
To make mankind afraid.
Cassandra.
Poor woman! Poor dead woman! . . . Yea, it is I,
Poured out like water among them. Weep for me. . . .
Ah! What is this place? Why must I come with thee . . .
To die, only to die?
Leader.
Thou art borne on the breath of God, thou spirit wild,
For thine own weird to wail,
Like to that wingèd voice, that heart so sore
Which, crying alway, hungereth to cry more,
"Itylus, Itylus," till it sing her child
Back to the nightingale.
Cassandra.
Oh, happy Singing Bird, so sweet, so clear!
Soft wings for her God made,
And an easy passing, without pain or tear . . .
For me 'twill be torn flesh and rending blade.
