VIII

Cytherea herself, now, the Loves are lamenting.

      Each torch at the door, Hymenæus blew out;

And the marriage-wreath dropping its leaves as repenting,

      No more "Hymen, Hymen," is chanted about,

But the ai ai instead—"ai alas" is begun

      For Adonis, and then follows "ai Hymenæus!"

The Graces are weeping for Cinyris' son

      Sobbing low, each to each, "His fair eyes cannot see us!"—

Their wail strikes more shrill than the sadder Dione's;

The Fates mourn aloud for Adonis, Adonis,

Deep chanting! he hears not a word that they say:

      He would hear, but Persephone has him in keeping.

—Cease moan, Cytherea—leave pomps for to-day,

      And weep new when a new year refits thee for weeping.