PERSEPHONE
Goddess and Mother, let me smooth thy brow
And cling about thee for a little time
With these pale hands,—for see, still at the glow
Of all this white-houred noon and alien sun
I tremble like a new-born nightingale
Blown from its nest into bewildering rain.
How shall I tell thee, Mother, of those days
My aching eyes saw not this azure sea
Of air, unknown in Death’s gray Underworld
And only whispered of by restless Shades
Rememb’ring shadowy things across their dusk?—
Or how I often asked: “Canst thou, dark heart,
Remember home? So far and long forlorn
Canst thou, my heart, remember Sicily?”
Then didst thou, weeping, call Persephone
The Many-Songed, and where thy lonely voice
Once fell all greenness faded and the song
Of birds all died, and down from brazen heights
A blood-red sun long noon by sullen noon
On ashen days and desolation shone;
And cattle lowed about the withered springs,
And Earth gaped wide, each arid Evening moaned
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