So all beauty flows down to thee! I cannot make him
Look up at my grief; there's despair in my cry,
Since I wail for Adonis, who died to me . . died to me . .
—Then, I fear thee!—Art thou dead, my Adored?
Passion ends like a dream in the sleep that's denied to me.—
Cypris is widowed; the Loves seek their lord
All the house through in vain! Charm of cestus has ceased
With thy clasp!—O too bold in the hunt, past preventing;
Ay, mad: thou so fair . . . to have strife with a beast!"—
Thus did Cypris wail on—and the Loves are lamenting.
VI.
Ah, ah, Cytherea! Adonis is dead,—
She wept tear after tear, with the blood which was shed;
And both turned into flowers for the earth's garden-close;
Her tears, to the wind-flower,—his blood, to the rose.
VII.
I mourn for Adonis—Adonis is dead.
Weep no more in the woods, Cytherea, thy lover!
So, well; make a place for his corse in thy bed,
With the purples thou sleepest in, under and over.
He's fair though a corse—a fair corse . . like a sleeper—
