Translation by Horace Gregory

New York: Mentor Books, 1960, 72-75

In Thessaly no girl grew half as fair
As pretty young Coronis of Larissa;
As long as she was chaste or thought to be,
O God of Delphi, then the girl was pleasure
In your eyes. But her unfaithfulness
Was closely witnessed by Apollo's bird
Who ran, or rather flew, to tell his master.

The crow came after him on flapping wings
To ask him what was cause of all the hurry,
And when he heard the reason, he replied,
"What futile flight! Do not refuse to hear
My timely warning. Think what I used to be,
Look at me now and find that good intentions
Worked me ill: One day a child was born, his name,
Erichthonius, without a mother.
Pallas [Athene] concealed him in a box of woven willows
And gave it to three daughters of old Cecrops--
Instructions not to look into her secret!
I hid within the dense yet small-leaved branches
Of a tall elm to see what they would do.

Two girls, Pendrosos and Herse, stood guard
Above the box until Aglauros called
Her sisters timid and ripped off the lid;
They saw a child who seemed to be half dragon!
I told Minerva [Roman name for Athene] what the girls had done,
And I, who was still then her favorite bird,
Was sent among the black birds of the night!
Let my disgrace warn creatures of the air
To talk less--if they wish to outwit trouble.

Yet she chose me to be her counselor;
Go, ask Minerva, though she's furious
At me now and very angry, yet she
Will not deny it. My story is well known,
For I was once a princess, daughter of
A famous king, Coroneus of Phocis
(Hear me, nor turn aside); rich noblemen
Had hopes to marry me. But too much
Was the cause of my undoing. One day
I took my lonely walk along the beach,
Pacing the sands; there Neptune [Poseidon] looked at me
And was all heat; he begged, he pleaded, then
When smooth words failed, tried force, and I, distracted,
Ran away, the beach behind me, over dune
And hollow until I almost fell from
Weariness onto soft sand. I called aloud
On men and gods to save me, and my cries
Reached no mortal ear. Only a virgin
Goddess heard a virgin's prayer; she [that is, Minerva] it was
Who rescued me. And as I lifted up
My arms to heaven I saw them grow like
Shadows of whitest feathers in the air,
And as I turned to toss my stole aside
My feathered shoulders were a pair of wings,
And feathers struck their roots within my flesh,
Nor could I beat my naked breasts with hands,
For both had vanished. As I tried to run,
I floated above sand, above the earth,
And rising lightly flew to higher air,
And at Minerva's side was her chaste friend.

But what is this to me if Nyctimene,
Changed to an owl for her dark sins, has taken
My place of honor at Minerva's court?
You heard what things were said of her at Lesbos--
That Nyctimene shared her father's bed?
And though she is all owl she still remembers
Her guilt, her lust, and in her darkness flies
From sight of men adn from the light of day,
Exiled by all who rule the brilliant sky."

The raven answered shortly, "Take your warning,
Its evil and whatever it may mean
Upon yourself; it is an empty omen,"
And went his way to tell his master how
He'd seen Coronis lying in the shade
And with her a young man of Thessaly.

When bright Apollo, god and lover, heard
The news, the laurels melted from his curls,
His face, his color paled, the plectra [kind of like a guitar pick] fluttered
From his hand, and as his heart flamed into
Growing rage, he snatched his usual weapons,
Strung taut his bow, aimed at and pierced the breast
That he so often held against his own.

And as he drew his arrow from her heart,
And her white belly and thighs ran red with blood,
The girl groaned, "Phoebus, O this deepest thrust
Was well deserved, but first I should have given
The child beneath my heart his light of day,
For now we die as one." And with these words
Her life poured from her veins in blood, body
And limbs grown cold within the cold of death.

Her lover wept too late, too late for tears or
To undo the cruel act done: he hated self,
The self that heard her guilt, the self that fired
With rage, hated the raven who made him hear
The rumors of her sings which caused his anger
And his present grief, hated his bow, hated
His quick arrow and the hand that sped it.

He kissed the fallen girl and tried to force
A victory over fate, but now his arts
Of medicine were useless. When his caresses
Failed, when he at last caught glances of the red,
The glaring pyre that fires white limbs to ashes
(Though faces of the gods cannot shed tears)
His deep heart groaned, groans that the young cow utters
When in her sight the hammer falls--she hears
The blow--aimed at the right ear, through the skull
Of the unweaned calf. Then Phoebus poured sweet-
Smelling ointment on his dead love's breast
And for the last time held her in his arms;
Nor can he let her rest as honored dead,
Nor bear the thought of his own son consumed
By the same fires that take his mother's body;
He tore the flame-wrapped child out of its womb
And took it to the cave of Centaur Chiron.

The raven, waiting praise for truthfulness,
Stood by, but Phoebus promptly banished him
To night, far from the haven of white birds.