They sent him back to her. The letter came Saying . . . and she could have him. And before She could be sure there was no hidden ill Under the formal writing, he was in her sight -- Living. -- They gave him back to her alive -- How else? They are not known to send the dead -- And not disfigured visibly. His face? -- His hands? She had to look -- to ask, "What was it, dear?" And she had given all And still she had all -- they had -- they the lucky! Wasn't she glad now? Everything seemed won, And all the rest for them permissable ease. She had to ask, "What was it, dear?" "Enough, Yet not enough. A bullet through and through, High in the breast. Nothing but what good care And medicine and rest -- and you a week, Can cure me of to go again." The same Grim giving to do over for them both. She dared no more than ask him with her eyes How was it with him for a second trial. And with his eyes he asked her not to ask. They had given him back to her, but not to keep. Robert Frost
I'm a woman, a Witch, a mother, a grandmother, an eco-feminist, a gardener, a reader, a writer, and a priestess of the Great Mother Earth. Hecate appears in the
Homeric Ode to Demeter, which tells of Hades who caught Persophone
"up reluctant on his golden car and bare her away lamenting. . . . But no one, either of the deathless gods or of mortal men, heard her voice, nor yet the olive-trees bearing rich fruit: only tenderhearted Hecate, bright-coiffed, the daughter of Persaeus, heard the girl from her cave . . . ."