Orpheus

When the season is mad, And the gods overcome her, When the sky is fulfilled of the frost and the fingers of winter numb her! O marvellous earth Of multiple mood That givest men birth And delicate food, Red wine to make mirth Of thine own red blood, And corn and green grass and sweet flowers and fruits most heavenly-hued ! Borne skyward in swoon By arrowy hours, Girt round of the moon And the girdling flowers, The sun for a boon, Sweet kisses of showers, O mother, O life, O desire, my soul is a bird in thy bowers ! , | My soul is caught up In thy green-hearted waves. I drink at the cup Of thy sweet valley graves. My spirit may sup Slow tunes in thy caves. O hide me, thy child, in thy bosom, that the heart in me yearns to and craves. 56