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TO A GREEK GIRL.
ITH breath of thyme and bees that hum, Across the years you seem to come,Across the years with nymph-like head, And wind-blown brows unfilleted; A girlish shape that slips the bud
In lines of unspoiled symmetry; A girlish shape that stirs the blood With pulse of Spring, Autonoë!
Where'er you pass,-where'er you go,
How sweet with you on some green sod
To watch across the stricken chords
In vain,-in vain! The years
From under-lands of Memory,-
THE DEATH OF PROCRIS.
A VERSION SUGGESTED BY THE SO-NAMED PICTURE OF PIERO DI COSIMO, IN THE NATIONAL GALLERY.
ROCRIS, the nymph, had wedded Cephalus :-
Heavy with June, untired and amorous, Named her his love; but now, in unknown ways, His heart was gone; and evermore his gaze Turned from her own, and ever farther ranged His woodland war; while she, in dull amaze, Beholding with the hours her husband changed, Sighed for his lost caress, by some hard god estranged.
So, on a day, she rose and found him not.
Alone, with wet, sad eye, she watched the shade Brighten below a soft-rayed sun that shot Arrows of light through all the deep-leaved glade; Then, with weak hands, she knotted up the braid Of her brown hair, and o'er her shoulders cast Her crimson weed; with faltering fingers made Her golden girdle's clasp to join, and past Down to the trackless wood, full pale and overcast.
And all day long her slight spear devious flew, And harmless swerved her arrows from their aim, For ever, as the ivory bow she drew, Before her ran the still unwounded game. Then, at the last, a hunter's cry there came, And, lo, a hart that panted with the chase; Thereat her cheek was lightened as with flame, And swift she gat her to a leafy place, Thinking, "I yet may chance unseen to see his face."
Leaping he went, this hunter Cephalus,
Bent in his hand his cornel bow he bare,
But Procris lay among the white wind-flowers,
To lie beside the sea,-with many an uncouth tear.
THE PRAYER OF THE SWINE TO
HUDDLING they came, with shag sides caked of
With hoofs fresh sullied from the troughs o'erturned,
With wrinkling snouts,—yet eyes in which desire Of some strange thing unutterably burned, Unquenchable; and still where'er She turned They rose about her, striving each o'er each, With restless, fierce impórtuning that yearned Through those brute masks some piteous tale to teach, Yet lacked the words thereto, denied the power of speech.
For these Eurylochus alone escaping
In truth, that small exploring band had been,
Had sent inland ;-whom then the islet-Queen,-