One can get used to anything; the cave

Was dark, smelt bad, and twice a day the wave

Slopped on the floor; however much she swept,

Sand, bladderwrack and dead sea-urchins crept

Over the stones. The monster did not care,

But crouched preoccupied before the door,

Fretted at unsuccessful business deals,

Went out to fish and came back late for meals.

And when at last the heaven-sprung hero came,

Wing-heeled and gorgon-shielded, thirsty for fame,

Red-hot with bravery, he found her sitting

Upon a damp stone, busy with her knitting.

The monster lay asleep, and dinner stood

To simmer by a fire of smouldering wood.

The sword seemed pointless, something was amiss.

She stirred the pot. He had not come for this.

He was too late. The voyage had been too long.

The gorgon shield turned no ill thing to stone.

The gold helm hardly dazzled her at all.

She hung the iron ladle on the wall,

Stood up and faced him. Was the moment come?

But when the monster shivered in the gloom

She bent and spread a cloth over its coiled

Green limbs. The hero’s attitude was spoiled.

Had he looked close enough he might have seen

A thin dry shudder where her heart had been,

But saw no thundering wrong to fight about,

Clattered his golden armour and went out;

Finding her patient unrebellious shape

No pretext for a plain heroic rape.

The tide was rising, and she turned once more

To sweep the dark sea from the door.