III

I mourn for Adonis—the Loves are lamenting.

      Deep, deep in the thigh, is Adonis's wound;

But a deeper, is Cypris's bosom presenting—

      The youth lieth dead, while his dogs howl around,

And the nymphs weep aloud from the mists of the hill,—

      And the poor Aphrodite, with tresses unbound,

All dishevelled, unsandalled, shrieks mournful and shrill

      Through the dusk of the groves. The thorns, tearing her feet,

Gather up the red flower of her blood, which is holy,

      Each footstep she takes; and the valleys repeat

The sharp cry which she utters, and draw it out slowly.

      She calls on her spouse, her Assyrian; on him

Her own youth; while the dark blood spreads over his body—

      The chest taking hue, from the gash in the limb,

And the bosom, once ivory, turning to ruddy.