The other, that in the recesses most holy
Of the bride-bower of Zeus did he make essay
Of the Queen of Heaven! Meet is it to know
Our mortality’s limits, meet to forego
The lawless loves that their victim throw
Into gulfs of destruction. Such was his folly;
For with nought but a cloud it was that he lay,
Unknowing all, to his own confusion
Lured on by a sweetly-beckoning lie;
For the cloud-wrought image the semblance bare
Of Kronos’ Child, Heaven’s fairest fair;
For the hands of Zeus had fashioned the snare,
The beautiful bane, for his soul’s delusion.
So he compassed his own dire doom thereby,