THE PRINCESS OF PANORMITA 
53 
 
Reels in the redeless rune, 
 Ineffably, utterly tender !   
 
Hark !  the appealing cry 
 Of deadly hurt in the hollow :— 
Hyacinth !  Hyacinth !  Ay !   
 Smitten to death by Apollo. 
Swift, O maiden moon, 
 Send they ray-dews after ;   
Turn the dolorous tune 
 To soft ambiguous laughter !   
 
Mourn, O Maenads, mourn !   
 Surely your comfort is over. 
All we laugh at you lorn. 
 Ours are the poppies and clover !   
O that mouth and eyes, 
 Mischievous, male, alluring !   
O that twitch of the thighs 
 Dorian past enduring !   
 
Where is wisdom now ?   
 Where the sage and his doubt ?   
Surely the sweat of the brow 
 Hath driven the demon out. 
Surely the scented sleep 
 That crowns the equal war 
Is wiser than only to weep— 
 To weep for evermore !