After The Ball Poem by Jonas Hallgrimsson

If mother had known that a foreign land
holds thrills both pleasant and horrid!
-- He hurled the golden ball from his hand
and struck my glowing forehead.

And now I plunge through the woods, my mind
distracted, at sixes and sevens,
seeking my white, my delicate hind --
stars are aglint in the heavens.

Ye gods! in that shadowy pool ahead --
the Huntress! a sight to undo me!
Hark! -- a halloo! -- it's finished! -- I'm dead!
The hounds of the nymphs pursue me.