Classic Poem

The streaming skies have wept our lonely death;
Straighten'd we lie and hapless wait for thee:
Thou art our Mother! warm us with thy breath;

Whether within a hollow of the sea,
Or in some yet unravisht dell of cresses,
Or ferny thicket where no frost may be,

Thou dwellest, or where desolate cypresses
Toss their black plumes about in thin blue air,
And wailing seas fling high their stormy tresses;

Lo, in thy myrtle groves the doves prepare
Their homesteads, and their broodful murmurs float
Out to the wintry beam, and here and there

The ousel thrills his mellow-chorded rote,
And in broad diapason all thy choir
Prelude the rapture of thy honey throat.

Now in the drenchèd pasture spire on spire
Uplifts the tender undergrowth of grasses;
Now the sun tinges blushing woods with fire

Where, westering tardier, glowing he passes,
As loath to miss thy coming when from over
The even sea thou glidest; white-arm'd lasses

Lapful of meadow flowers stray to discover
The crocus' purple chalice gemm'd with gold,
And pencill'd wood-sorrel, shy April's lover,

To deck thy sylvan altar. Now, behold!
The sacrifice, fruit from thine Earth's warm breast,
Balm and new milk, the firstlings of the fold,
Rose-sharded wind-flowers, and garlands drest
For festival, and glossy eggs of doves
Fresh taken from the sanctuary nest.

So, Aphroditè, grey-eyed queen of loves,
So, Earth-begetter, full of tilth and store,
Rise from the dead, nor leave us any more,
Fountain and stream of everything that moves!