From "Acon"
The maiden is dying; the glory withers from her rose-red face.
As a purple hyacinth in a secret valley, fed by the Earth our mother, by her drawn up with dew and happy winds — if once the heat of the sky or bitter Auster fall upon it, then, spoiled of the joyful pride of beauty, it droops and dies upon the parched grasses.
Unwonted griefs are in the meadows and the hayswathes rot in the desolate fields. Christ-thorns grow where the violet was. The white lilies wither from the drooping stem. No berries colour the lush river bank; in meadow and wood is neither grass nor leaf.
As a purple hyacinth in a secret valley, fed by the Earth our mother, by her drawn up with dew and happy winds — if once the heat of the sky or bitter Auster fall upon it, then, spoiled of the joyful pride of beauty, it droops and dies upon the parched grasses.
Unwonted griefs are in the meadows and the hayswathes rot in the desolate fields. Christ-thorns grow where the violet was. The white lilies wither from the drooping stem. No berries colour the lush river bank; in meadow and wood is neither grass nor leaf.
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