To Demeter

Thou ever young! Persephone but gazes   Upon thy face, and shows thee back thine own; And every flock that on thy hillsides grazes,   And every breeze from thy fair rivers blown,   And all the nestlings from thy branches flown,     Are eloquent in thy praises,       Demeter, mother of truth. Thy seasons of grief, thy winters white with snowing,   More lovely make thy face, adorn thy head, Add beauty to thy sweet eyes, ever glowing   With love and strength and godhead; and thy tread   Sweetens the earth; and all the gods are dead     But thee,—thee only, strowing       Ever the land with youth. And all the dead gods are in thee united,   Woman and girl and lover and friend and queen; And this tame, time-worn world is full requited   For that the Christ has cost us, and the teen   Bred of swift time. And thy kissed palms between—     Thy dear kissed hands—are righted       The heart-knot and the ruth.