Atalanta

Atalanta and I know better! Distrust you the fable of old, Of the envious Goddess who set her On to defeat by tempting her soul With the wily bright roll Of an apple of treacherous gold. Distrust the story which tells you She loitered with willing, shy feet. A doubt on the myth which compels you Ever to dream that she lingered to lose In the race, or to choose In Love's contest an easy defeat! She never could linger, no, never! To help poor Hippomenes by! Fleet-footed, stern-hearted, forever, She keeps to the goal. Let him win if he can! If he be not the man Born for winning, why then let him die! The fable was twisted! I plant a Firm foot of assurance on this. Some woman--but not Atalanta-- Lingered to lose; and stooped to enhance By a sweet trick the chance Of being defeated by bliss!