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But still among the cedars secular,
Deep in the dim wood still the sun salutes
The musing golden God who agelessly,
Breathing no incense but the pillar'd pines
Deathlessly dreams the lagging years away.
Peregrina:
Alas, no more thro' dewy underwoods
Do Dionysos' frenzy'd worshippers
Dight in the dappl'd vesture of a fawn,
These rosy-hued thro' Coan garment seen,
These frankly white but for their ivy-crown,
These wreathing verdant clusters of the vine,
Purple and amber twined with trailing green,
With clash of cymbal and with sobbing flute
Divide the darkness with opposing song
Of rousing rapture, or a low lament;
But now you serve some stern ascetic God,
You seem to count it shame that a form be fair,
And muffle you like vestals!
