To know just how she suffered would be dear;
To know if any human eyes were near
To whom she could intrust her mortal gaze,
Until it settled firm on Perseus.
To know if she was patient, part content,
Was dying as she thought, or different;
Was it a pleasant day to die,
And did the sunshine face her way?
What was her furthest mind, of home, or God,
Or what the distant say
At news that she ceased plaguing humans
On such a day?
And wishes, had she any?
Just her cry, accented,
Was all I cared to hear.
And was she confident until
Soul fluttered out to everlasting hell?
And if she spoke, what name was best,
What one broke off with
At the drowsiest?
Her gorgon-husband, I guess.
Was she afraid, or tranquil?
Might she know
How conscious consciousness could grow,
Till fright that was, and fright too blest to be,
Meet—and Medusa’s head we flee!
The non-mythological version.