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.
To Demeter
More from Poet
-
Sweet wooded way in life, forgetful Sleep! Dim, drowsy realm where restful shadows fall, And where the world’s glare enters not at all, Or in soft glimmer making rest more deep; Where sound comes not, or else like brooks that keep The world’s noise out, as by a slumberous wall Of gentlest murmur...
-
What though the green leaf grow? ’T will last a month and day; In all sweet flowers that blow Lurks Death, his slave Decay. But if my lady smile There is no Death at all; The world is fair the while,— What though the red leaf fall?
-
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...