PERSEPHONE
Goddess and Mother, let me smooth thy brow
And cling about thee for a little time
With these pale hands,—for see, still at the glow
Of all this white-houred noon and alien sun
I tremble like a new-born nightingale
Blown from its nest into bewildering rain.
How shall I tell thee, Mother, of those days
My aching eyes saw not this azure sea