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And Pan by noon and Bacchus by night,
Fleeter of foot than the fleet-foot kid,
Follows with dancing and fills with delight
The Mænad and the Bassarid;
And soft as lips that laugh and hide
The laughing leaves of the tree divide,
And screen from seeing and leave in sight
The god pursuing, the maiden hid.

The ivy falls with the Bacchanal's hair
Over her eyebrows hiding her eyes;
The wild vine slipping down leaves bare
Her bright breast shortening into sighs;
The wild vine slips with the weight of its leaves,
But the berried ivy catches and cleaves

To the limbs that glitter, the feet that scare
The wolf that follows, the fawn that flies.

CHORUS

(From the same)

We have seen thee, O Love, thou art fair; thou art goodly, O Love;

Thy wings make light in the air as the wings of a

dove.

Thy feet are as winds that divide the stream of the sea; Earth is thy covering to hide thee, the garment of thee. Thou art swift and subtle and blind as a flame of

fire;

Before thee the laughter, behind thee the tears of desire;

And twain go forth beside thee, a man with a maid; Her eyes are the eyes of a bride whom delight makes

afraid;

As the breath in the buds that stir is her bridal breath: But Fate is the name of her; and his name is Death.

For an evil blossom was born

Of sea-foam and the frothing of blood,
Blood-red and bitter of fruit,

And the seed of it laughter and tears,
And the leaves of it madness and scorn:
A bitter flower from the bud,

Sprung of the sea without root,

Sprung without graft from the years.

What hadst thou to do being born,
Mother, when winds were at ease,
As a flower of the springtime of corn,
A flower of the foam of the seas?
For bitter thou wast from thy birth,
Aphrodite, a mother of strife;
For before thee some rest was on earth,
A little respite from tears,

A little pleasure of life;

For life was not then as thou art,

But as one that waxeth in years
Sweet-spoken, a fruitful wife;

Earth had no thorn, and desire
No sting, neither death any dart;
What hadst thou to do amongst these,
Thou, clothed with a burning fire,

Thou, girt with sorrow of heart,
Thou, sprung of the seed of the seas
As an ear from a seed of corn,

As a brand plucked forth of a pyre,
As a ray shed forth of the morn,

For division of soul and disease,
For a dart and a sting and a thorn?
What ailed thee then to be born?

Was there not evil enough,

Mother, and anguish on earth Born with a man at his birth, Wastes underfoot, and above

Storm out of heaven, and dearth Shaken down from the shining thereof, Wrecks from afar overseas

And peril of shallow and firth,

And tears that spring and increase
In the barren places of mirth,
That thou, having wings as a dove,
Being girt with desire for a girth,
That thou must come after these,
That thou must lay on him love?

Thou shouldst not so have been born: But death should have risen with thee, Mother, and visible fear,

Grief, and the wringing of hands,

And noise of many that mourn;

The smitten bosom, the knee
Bowed, and in each man's ear
A cry as of perishing lands,

A moan as of people in prison,
A tumult of infinite griefs;

And thunder of storm on the sands,
And wailing of wives on the shore;

And under thee newly arisen

Loud shoals and shipwrecking reefs,
Fierce air and violent light;
Sail rent and sundering oar,
Darkness, and noises of night;
Clashing of streams in the sea,
Wave against wave as a sword,
Clamour of currents, and foam;
Rains making ruin on earth;

Winds that wax ravenous and roam
As wolves in a wolfish horde;
Fruits growing faint in the tree,

And blind things dead in their birth:
Famine, and blighting of corn,

When thy time was come to be born.

THE GARDEN OF PROSERPINE

(From Laus Veneris, 1866)

Here, where the world is quiet;
Here, where all trouble seems
Dead winds' and spent waves' riot
In doubtful dreams of dreams;
I watch the green field growing
For reaping folk and sowing,
For harvest-time and mowing,
A sleepy world of streams.

I am tired of tears and laughter,
And men that laugh and weep;
Of what may come hereafter

I

For men that sow to reap:

am weary of days and hours,
Blown buds of barren flowers,
Desires and dreams and powers
And every thing but sleep.

Here life has death for neighbour,
And far from eye or ear
Wan waves and wet winds labour,
Weak ships and spirits steer;
They drive adrift, and whither
They wot not who make thither;
But no such winds blow hither,

And no such things grow here.

No growth of moor or coppice,
No heather-flower or vine,
But bloomless buds of poppies,
Green grapes of Proserpine,
Pale beds of blowing rushes
Where no leaf blooms or blushes
Save this whereout she crushes
For dead men deadly wine.

Pale, without name or number,
In fruitless fields of corn,
They bow themselves and slumber
All night till light is born;
And like a soul belated,
In hell and heaven unmated,
By cloud and mist abated

Comes out of darkness morn.

Though one were strong as seven,
He too with death shall dwell,
Nor wake with wings in heaven,
Nor weep for pains in hell;
Though one were fair as roses,
His beauty clouds and closes;
And well though love reposes,
In the end it is not well.

Pale, beyond porch and portal,

Crowned with calm leaves, she stands

Who gathers all things mortal

With cold immortal hands;

Her languid lips are sweeter

Than love's who fears to greet her
To men that mix and meet her

From many times and lands.

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