Agamemnon quotes

for my master’s dice I score Good, and mine own to-night three sixes plain. Lights begin to show in the Palace. Oh, good or ill, my hand shall clasp again My dear lord’s hand, returning! Beyond that I speak not.

A great ox hath laid his weight Across my tongue.

But these stone walls know well, If stones had speech, what tale were theirs to tell. For me, to him that knoweth I can yet Speak; if another questions I forget.

Lights begin to show in the Palace. Oh, good or ill, my hand shall clasp again My dear lord’s hand, returning! Beyond that I speak not. A great ox hath laid his weight Across my tongue.

But these stone walls know well, If stones had speech, what tale were theirs to tell.

For me, to him that knoweth I can yet Speak; if another questions I forget.

Yea, sent him dances before the end For his bridal cheer, Wrestlings heavy and limbs forespent For Greek and Trojan, the knee earth-bent, The bloody dust and the broken spear.

He knoweth, that which is here is here, And that which Shall Be followeth near;

He seeketh God with a great desire, He heaps his gifts, he essays his pyre With torch below and with oil above, With tears, but never the wrath shall move Of the Altar cold that rejects his fire.

And who followed met at last His Third-thrower, and is gone. Only they whose hearts have known Zeus, the Conqueror and the Friend, They shall win their vision’s end;

Zeus the Guide, who made man turn Thought-ward, Zeus, who did ordain Man by Suffering shall Learn.

So the heart of him, again Aching with remembered pain, Bleeds and sleepeth not, until Wisdom comes against his will. ’Tis the gift of One by strife Lifted to the throne of life.

Only they whose hearts have known Zeus, the Conqueror and the Friend, They shall win their vision’s end; Zeus the Guide, who made man turn Thought-ward, Zeus, who did ordain Man by Suffering shall Learn.

So the heart of him, again Aching with remembered pain, Bleeds and sleepeth not, until Wisdom comes against his will.

’Tis the gift of One by strife Lifted to the throne of life.

“A heavy doom, sure, if God’s will were broken; But to slay mine own child, who my house delighteth, Is that not heavy? That her blood should flow On her father’s hand, hard beside an altar?

My path is sorrow wheresoe’er I go.

Shall Agamemnon fail his ships and people, And the hosts of Hellas melt as melts the snow? They cry, they thirst, for a death that shall break the spell, For a Virgin’s blood: ’tis a rite of old, men tell.

Ilion is ours. No riddling tale I tell.

Such joy comes knocking at the gate of tears.

Aye, ’tis a faithful heart that eye declares.

Troy fallen?—But how long? When fell she, say?

The very night that mothered this new day.

And who of heralds with such fury came?

For visibly Pride doth breed its own return On prideful men, who, when their houses swell With happy wealth, breathe ever wrath and blood. Yet not too fierce let the due vengeance burn; Only as deemeth well One wise of mood.

Never shall state nor gold Shelter his heart from aching Whoso the Altar of Justice old Spurneth to Night unwaking.

The Sinner suffers in his longing till at last Temptation overcomes him; as longing for Helen overcame Paris.

Dark? For what cause? Why should such darkness be?

Silence in wrong is our best medicine here.

Your kings were gone. What others need you fear?

Even so! ’Tis past, and all is victory. And, for our life in those long years, there were Doubtless some grievous days, and some were fair.

Who but a god goes woundless all his way?

… Oh, could I tell the sick toil of the day, The evil nights, scant decks ill-blanketed; The rage and cursing when our daily bread Came not! And then on land ’twas worse than all. Our quarters close beneath the enemy’s wall;

And ever of great bliss is born A tear unstanched and a heart broken. But I hold my thought alone and by others unbeguiled;

’Tis the deed that is unholy shall have issue, child on child, Sin on sin, like his begetters; and they shall be as they were.

But the man who walketh straight, and the house thereof, though Fate Exalt him, the children shall be fair.

A mailed multitude, a Lion unfed, Which leapt the tower and lapt the blood of Kings! Lo, to the Gods I make these thanksgivings. But for thy words: I marked them, and I mind Their meaning, and my voice shall be behind Thine.

For not many men, the proverb saith, Can love a friend whom fortune prospereth Unenvying; and about the envious brain Cold poison clings, and doubles all the pain Life brings him.

His own woundings he must nurse, And feels another’s gladness like a curse. Well can I speak. I know the mirrored glass Called friendship, and the shadow shapes that pass And feign them a King’s friends.

Ye Elders, Council of the Argive name Here present, I will no more hold it shame To lay my passion bare before men’s eyes.

There comes a time to a woman when fear dies For ever.

None hath taught me. None could tell, Save me, the weight of years intolerable I lived while this man lay at Ilion. That any woman thus should sit alone In a half-empty house, with no man near, Makes her half-blind with dread!

Lord, care not for the cavillings of men!

The murmur of a people hath strange weight.

Who feareth envy, feareth to be great.

The murmur of a people hath strange weight.

Who feareth envy, feareth to be great.

’Tis graceless when a woman strives to lead.

So in this war thou must my conqueror be?

Yield! With good will to yield is victory!

Well, if I needs must … Be it as thou hast said! Quick! Loose me these bound slaves on which I tread, And while I walk yon wonders of the sea God grant no eye of wrath be cast on me From far!

But of these Enough.—And mark, I charge thee, this princess Of Ilion; tend her with all gentleness. God’s eye doth see, and loveth from afar, The merciful conqueror.

For no slave of war Is slave by his own will.

She is the prize And chosen flower of Ilion’s treasuries, Set by the soldiers’ gift to follow me. Now therefore, seeing I am constrained by thee And do thy will, I walk in conqueror’s guise Beneath my Gate, trampling sea-crimson dyes.

The strange maid needs a rare interpreter.

She is trembling like a wild beast in a snare.

’Fore God, she is mad, and heareth but her own Folly! A slave, her city all o’erthrown, She needs must chafe her bridle, till this fret Be foamed away in blood and bitter sweat. I waste no more speech, thus to be defied.

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.

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?

Time was, I held it shame hereof to speak.

Ah, shame is for the mighty, not the weak.

We wrestled, and his breath to me was sweet.