108 EPILOGUE
Thus may no moon tell Earth my story after,
No virgin sing my fame as virginal.
Yet some night-leaves the southern stream may
waft her,
Some amorous nymph across the wood may call
A loud mad chant; love, tears, harsh sombre
laughter.
No more at all.
Oh, mother, Oh, Demeter, in my burthen
Let me assume thy sorrow singular;
A branching temple and an altar earthen,
A fire of herbs, a clayen water-jar;
An olive grove to bind the sacred girth in
Lone woods afar.
Let life burn gently thence, as when the ember
In one faint incense-puff to shrineward dies.
No care, no pain, no craving to remember,
One leap toward the knees and destinies,
Where shine Her lips like flames, Her breasts
like amber,
Like moons Her eyes.
For my heart turns—ah still!—in Sorrow’s traces,
Where sad chill footprints pash the sodden leaves ;
Where ranged around me are the cold, grey faces;
Fallen on the stubble are the rotten sheaves;
The vicious ghosts abound; and Chronos’ paces
No soul deceives.