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—

      Lay soft in the silks he had pleasure to fold,

When, beside thee at night, holy dreams deep and deeper

      Enclosed his young life on the couch made of gold!

Love him still, poor Adonis! cast on him together

      The crowns and the flowers! since he died from the place

Why let all die with him—let the blossoms go wither;

      Rain myrtles and olive-buds down on his face:

Rain the myrrh down, let all that is best fall a-pining,

      For thy myrrh, his life, from thy keeping is swept!—

—Pale he lay, thine Adonis, in purples reclining—

      The Loves raised their voices around him and wept.

They have shorn their bright curls off to cast on Adonis:

One treads on his bow,—on his arrows, another,—

One breaks up a well-feathered quiver; and one is,

      Bent low on a sandal, untying the strings;

      And one carries the vases of gold from the springs,

While one washes the wound; and behind them a brother

      Fans down on the body sweet airs with his wings.