With grief, and the thin air, my breath, was stained
  With the contagion of a mother's hate
  Breathed on her child's destroyer; ay, I heard
  Thy curse, the which, if thou rememberest not,
  Yet my innumerable seas and streams,
  Mountains, and caves, and winds, and yon wide air,
  And the inarticulate people of the dead,
  Preserve, a treasured spell. We meditate
  In secret joy and hope those dreadful words,
  But dare not speak them.

PROMETHEUS
  Venerable mother!
  All else who live and suffer take from thee
  Some comfort; flowers, and fruits, and happy sounds,
  And love, though fleeting; these may not be mine.
  But mine own words, I pray, deny me not.

THE EARTH
  They shall be told. Ere Babylon was dust,
  The Magus Zoroaster, my dead child,
  Met his own image walking in the garden.
  That apparition, sole of men, he saw.
  For know there are two worlds of life and death:
  One that which thou beholdest; but the other
  Is underneath the grave, where do inhabit
  The shadows of all forms that think and live,