He followed me across the river

Because I was a poet,

Like himself,

Orpheus of the eyes,

Who saw the goddess in me 

All bone and innocent of flesh.

And with a bell and stick,

He begged for my release;

His voice rising 

Like a phoenix

While I stood still,

Eurydice forever.

Never to ascend,

Always to remain,

A woman

Born of myth

And frail of foot;

Whose strings were strung

For his small hands–

Forgotten in the incidence

Of a backward glance.