Collected Works (Vol. III)

LIBER TERTIUS VEL LABORIS 19! It was a meadow of soft grass and flowers, Where the sweet hours Lingered and laughed awhile ere noon re- poses. There were red roses And crocus, and flag-flowers, and violets, And hyacinth, regrets Of the ill-fortuned God, the quoit-player; And soft cool air Stirred all the field—and there were jessa- mines And snaky columbines. So all these maidens played, and gathered them From sad green stem Rejoicing blooms with sunlight mixed therein, But she, for sin And iron heart of the ill-minded Zeus, Caught up the dews Deep on her ankles, and went noiselessly Toward the laughing sea, And sought new blossoms—O the traitor, Earth, That brought to birth That day, as favouring the desire that swelled Beneath her heart of eld, Where dwelt the lonely, the detested one Intolerant of the sun, Hades! But Earth for love of him, for spite Of the young girl’s delight, And shame of her own age, brought forth that hour The fatal flower, Narcissus—which what soul of man shall smell Goes down to hell, Caught in the scent of sin—for such a doom Demeter’s flying loom Hath woven for revenge and punishment. The bright child went Thither; an hundred heads of blossom sprang; The green earth sang, And the skies laughed, and danced the sea’s young feet For joy of it. So the child went across that fairest plain To pluck, to strain That blossom of all blossoms to her heart. Her long hands dart, Exceeding delicate and fair, to cull That bloom too beautiful, Eager to gather the fresh floral birth. The grim black earth Gaped; roared athwart the gulf the golden car ; And flaming far The four white horses with their flashing manes | The might-resisting reins Lay in the ghastly hands, the arms of fear Of that dread charioteer, Death; and great Hades armed stood glitter- ing, Stooped to his spring, And whirled the child to the beneath abode. O heavy load! O bitter harvest of rich-rolling tears ! What cry who hears? A shrill shrill cry to father Zeus cried she, Forlorn Persephone ! Heard was that agony of grief by none Save only by the Sun, And Her who sat within her awful cave, Contemplative and grave, Hecate, veiléd with a shining veil Utterly frail As the strange web of dainty thoughts she wove, Somewhat like love. She heard, and great Apollo: neither stayed Hades, nor stretched to aid A pitying hand. O pitiful! O grief Baffling belief ! The gentle child—the cruel god—Ah me! Persephone ! Thus of thy grace, thy sorrow, thy young way Torn from the day Of all thy memory of soft shining flowers And happy-hearted hours, Mayst thou be very pitiful to me Who aye have pitied thee, Persephone!